Pic @ Michael Donovan

The first and only time we fucked, right before we did it he said, “This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, just so you know,” which made me think it probably was. He had jagged, overlapping teeth that grew in places where no teeth were meant to grow, and a dick that curved really far to the right. Eyes murky mud puddles, body like a line drawing. His name was and still is Connor Heilprin.

I was sixteen when I met Connor, him one year younger. He just showed up at school one day, came all the way to upstate New York from a place called Zionsville, Indiana. It sounded exotic at the time. He had long black hair that hung over his ears in thick, greasy curtains, and wore faded blue jeans with junky argyle sweaters that had been washed and worn so many times they were basically see-through. He was very serious in a way that the other kids at school were not. He seemed level-headed, sincere, practical, and I liked that. I stared at him from across the cafeteria for a month before we ever spoke, slowly sipping slushies, occasionally squinting my eyes for dramatic affect. Classic teen movie stuff. Before Connor I used to wear this glittery, roll-on eye shadow almost every day, but after his arrival I stopped, afraid if I wore it he would think I was somehow not serious enough for him. The first words Connor Heilprin ever said to me were, “You look like a girl from a movie that I can’t place.” Sometimes at night I’d fantasize about him being with other boys.

Connor’s house was an old, Victorian style home with Gothic windows, surrounded by Maple trees. We used to joke that it looked straight out of every horror movie you’d ever seen. We’d go there after school to smoke pot, although I never inhaled because it made me feel sick. Connor’s dad was an out of work actor and his mom was a painter who didn’t paint, so they were always around, reading books on broken lawn chairs, giving us warm but vacant nods of acknowledgment whenever we appeared.

The front porch of the house was covered in cardboard boxes. Each had a label written in black permanent marker, saying stuff like ‘National Geographic, 85-95’ and ‘sketches: blue era’. Most were filled with books, old magazines and newspapers, clothes, and various knickknacks. The interior was the same. To get from room to room you’d have to crawl over and under boxes, maneuver around car tires, squeeze past broken tables and chairs. Their front lawn looked as if it had never been mowed—grass and weeds nearly waist high. My mother said the way they lived was “unhygienic,” but I didn’t mind. The chaos of the house seemed to compliment their otherwise placid personalities.

“Over the past five years we’ve lived in seven different houses,” said Connor one uneventful afternoon. “We used to unpack every time we got somewhere new, but my parents can’t be bothered anymore. That’s why the house looks like, well… this. And my parents never throw anything away either. We’ve got newspapers from before I was born in here. It’s stupid–lugging all this stuff around with us–but they can’t seem to let anything go.”

Six months after Connor’s family moved to town their house burnt down. His mother had fallen asleep smoking a cigarette, which fell from her hand and set alight her polyester nightgown. This was the information given to Connor’s father after the accident, anyway. Because of all the stuff in the house, the fire spread fast. There was practically nothing left of the place when the flames were finally put out—just a blackened framework and towers of ash.

Connor moved away one month later. We fucked the night before he left. It was his idea, although he just laid there for most of it, eyes even more mud-puddley than normal, his black hair laid out on the pillow like a dark cloud around his head. He looked more like a picture of a boy than a boy. There but not there. Just… blank. After it was over he looked up at me, green eyes so serious, voice shaky like an earthquake and said, “I feel like I’m floating in some fever dream, like this life is borrowed, that my thoughts aren’t really my own. When I speak I hear someone else’s voice. Do you ever feel like that?”

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13 Replies to “Heilprin”

  1. Wow, this is a very poetic entry. I don't know what to do. Should I write about my first wanted and shitty experience?I was 14 and I acted old and whorish for my age. I loved to wear ripped, shredded jeans and tiny Bennetton tank tops, no bra. I met him right after watching a movie with my bff on the ride back to my house in the bus. He was 17. He was tall 5'9, black hair, beautiful features cover with acne. His name was A P I never heard anyone with that odd name before but he was fetching, confident. I liked him right away. He was a bad boy and he would get me in trouble all the time. He would come to my catholic school and wait for me at the entrance while my friends parents will come and pick them up. He took me to his house while his parents were not home and played the electric guitar in the balcony. He would played Black Sabath. He was so dreamy. He took me inside his house to his bedroom. He said the right way is to undress each other. His body was long and skinny like a string pea. He caressed me and I reciprocated. I remember not liking it at all, but since it was quick. I did not sweat it. I was so in love with him. I thought in a few years we could move in together, but that feeling did not last for long. I did not hear from him for a week until he called me the day before Valentines day. I was so excited. I remember stealing $40 dollars from my dad and buying for him Drakkar cologne. He came to my house dressed really nicely brought me flowers and we left. He took me to his school party as we walked around the party. He said I have to go…I forgot to buy a Valentines gift for my mother. I said ok and he told his friend D to watch over me. Two hours went buy and no sign of him. His friend looked at me and he said, let me take you home. I agreed with him and so we left. While walking back to my house I see A P holding hands with a girl. I thought I was going to faint, my heart was pounding so hard that I could not hear my thoughts. He passed me by as if I did not exist, and nothing could come out my mouth I was mute. He turned around to glanced at us smiling and kept going. I do not remember how I got to my house. But I cried myself to sleep. I felt next day as if someone have died. I was overwhelmed by sadness not for too long. Because that asshole came to my house with his new girlfriend just to tell me how lousy in bed I was (one time we only fucked one time). And that he made fun of me all the time because I walked funny, that my lips were too big ( back in the early 90's having chunky lips were a bad thing). Ohhh Yeah!! that was my wonderful first time.

  2. @lala He came to your house to tell you you were lousy in bed?! Did you have sex with SATAN? He sounds like the worst human being ever–not worthy of caring or even thinking about.

  3. @Slutever He was just a plain asshole, satan's asshole. It fucked with my head for a long time. The upside of this experience is that I learnt pretty early in life not to be naive. After that I went thru a fucking stage. I fucked guys and made my point that it was just sex. And then I learnt that if I acted completely indifferent guys would like me more. Yeah!! I was getting back at world with my vadge. lolIt feels like an eternity ago has passed from that time. At least I did not get pregnant.

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