Congratulations Backseat Betty!

The years go by, but reputation never fades.  The smell of plastic and sweat, or more correctly, the memory of the smell, the way it makes you feel, also never quite goes away.  It’s always there just under the base of your brain, waiting to tumble upward into your consciousness, the same way the stories of how you once blew four guys out of the trunk of a Nissan Exterra will be forgotten.

For someone who had a hard time in high school, attending your reunion isn’t the best idea.  Even if you do so with the best of intentions, you’re really just giving that negative experience power over you.  But when the man you should’ve married RSVPs and your manic friend on the planning committee lets you know, you feel compelled.  Which is how, tonight, despite reputation, memory, and knowledge that this is a very very bad idea, you’ll find yourself in a gym with a bar set up inside it, eyes madly strobing the room for a hint of the man who stole your heart before shattering it and turning you into a fiendish cockhound for six years of your life while you did everything you could to make yourself feel whole again.

You’ll see him alone, standing as far as possible from the bar, clutching a Manhattan.  He’ll look nervous.  It’ll get worse as you come closer and closer to him, but once you begin speaking, he’ll collapse into a sort of tenuous comfort that will be delicately awaiting some sort of upset.

“Hey,” you’ll announce to him.  “Heard you were coming.”

“Hey,” he’ll respond.  “Yeah.”

“Kids?” you’ll ask.  “Wife?”

He’ll nod.  “Yeah.  You?”

You’ll shake your head and hold up your hand.  No ring, no pale circle where ring should be, will mark it.

“No wife.”

He’ll laugh and become easy.  Easy in both ways.

Twenty minutes of conversation will pass, wherein he’ll divulge just how much he despises his wife, how much he loves his kids, and how much he wishes he’d married you instead.  When that last bit slips out you’ll kiss him on the mouth like a viper and drag him out of the gym, down the hall, to the parking lot.

“My car or yours?” will be the only phrase that will pass between you.  He’ll shrug weakly, so you’ll tug him to your Camry, where you’ll open the back door one handed through the open passenger door before shoving him inside your car and divesting him of his trousers.

It’ll all pass so quickly, so fluidly, that you’ll feel as if you were in high school again.  You won’t think about pulling muscles or injuring yourself – it’ll just be a rush of mad sex, the kind that you’ll be able to feel humming in your muscles for days, soreness seeping into you, ruining your week, providing you with ample memories to supply you in the future.

When the two of you finish, you’ll still be horny, but he’ll be exhausted, and the smell, that smell of sweat and cum and the plastic of car upholstery, will make you feel like you’re young again.  You’ll lay with your legs scissoring your ex, cigarette held between your fingers, staring indistinctly at the streetlights illuminating the parking lot.

“Was it worth it?” you’ll ask yourself.

The Ex will nod, thinking you’re referring to him.  You won’t notice the gesture.

Congratulations Backseat Betty!