How to deal with a man with a story and a gun

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How to deal with a man with a story and a gun

Lisa romeo recalls her first college relationship when she was willing to ignore a lot – until she didn’t.

My boyfriend used such confidence, such a cold expression. “Don’t worry. You’re safe here. I’ll be back in an hour. “

When he left, he shut the bedroom door behind him, I hear the key on the other side of the padlock – he installed the beat his drunkenness or stones back apartment partner constantly “borrow” his cigar, mini refrigerator, and hit me.

I was a freshman at the state university of New York at New York state university, majoring in journalism, and I worked for this guy in the first week of September. Although I in college when I was younger, I was 18 years old until the autumn, people always said to me: “she is so mature, so plain,” I don’t miss, but a longing to unwise, a little wild. In high school, I was mostly confident, smart guy, predictable guy, often Italian and Catholic, and if they were girls, it would be me.

I’ve done all this, I think. I want different things, different people.

The man was short and fat, pale and, of course, a little older. He returned to college at the age of 24, and the germans, the protestants, had never finished high school. Different, but not a bad guy, not a mean guy, not a guy I can’t bring home.

And he’s not alone. He is a man.

A man with a past. A story.

The man said he had been working undercover as a state police officer and rescue worker until last summer. Sometimes he had to skip classes and drive to other parts of the country to do experiments or upgrade scuba training. He had a big gun in the glove box in his car. He took me to the shooting range and taught me to shoot. We don’t have to enter some bar, because he might be arrested by the recognition, I learn to ignore some phone, a few left at 3 in the morning near the lake, to assist in the missing crew telephone, I learned to don’t ask more.

After graduating from high school, he had tried community college and then attended police academy, where he proved himself so well and so good a diver he was recruited by the national police. Before that, he had always loved photography. When he burned out at the police, he went to college, started taking core courses, and eventually studied newspapers and magazines in the same prestigious journalism class. He may have been one of the first full-time freshmen.

I like his story. It’s a great story, and I take every part of it as a true story, his true story. Maybe some of them are.

* * *

Next to more typical students, my boyfriend is a mature boyfriend of the level, and he is sure that we have only drunk a little, seldom drunk, and smoked some POTS, but no further experiments have been done. For me, this is good, because parties often lead to uncommitted hooks, and I want to avoid the typical freshman friend’s interest status and turn to a relationship. I am keen to find a real boyfriend, I can lose my virginity, he would be interested in let oneself become indispensable to me, help me count hockey team work, to my surprise hot chocolate and croissant. Long night study, shuttling me to keep my expensive horse stable. Dad has arranged a car service for these trips, but after our first week together, the drive to the stable is a hot date. More than once, I felt uneasy sitting in the stable, either caressing or at the empty booth at the end of the barn.

I was a freshman at New York state university, majoring in journalism, and I paid a heavy price for this guy in the first week of September.

My boyfriend’s brother lives nearby, but he often works on the road. By early October, his empty, empty loft apartment, eight miles from the campus, felt as if he belonged to us. On Friday, we want to grab clothes and books, going to the grocery store, and then stayed till Sunday night – cooking in our underwear, claw foot bath was in the shower, kept in a queen-size bed, sleep and then repeated.

* * *

We are a strange visual game. I stood on him, my Mediterranean color and thick hair compared to his pancake complexion and golden, slender locks. I know he’s not smart, but the most important thing is that he’s a photographer, an artist, and that’s a huge inspiration. The real problem, even after dating, fuckin ‘and a few months’ worth of house, really understands him, behind the story behind and behind the confident face, seems to cover something. I suspect that the police work could mean that he learned to hide his true self and need more time to penetrate.

I know he likes simple but essentially horrible things – bow hunting, scuba diving, shooting range – and simple and easy things – family dinners, road trips, shooting nature. Nevertheless, I have some days of disquiet under the false pretenses and real shyness of my hypothesis. Other days, a failed launch. I attribute some of these to “short male syndrome”, some of which grew up in a family that rarely talked about anything other than the weather, or whether the fish bit people.

I think, in his story, I glimpsed more real him: catching the bad guy, getting the dealership’s pregnant girlfriend to recover, and finding what needed to be found in the lake (or who). More than once, when we exploded on the highway to the west, being stopped by a cavalryman would lead to a conversation, a smile and a wave. I was grateful for some strange sense of power and approval. That and the attraction of animals.

I never worried about guns in my glove box.

* * *

On Saturday night in February, my boyfriend locked the room in the room at one o ‘clock in the afternoon – a golden time for his roommate’s upset. He needs to pick up his brother from the airport. It was ten degrees and it snowed, and I had to go to the equestrian show at five thirty. I could through the hall to my room, but until then I don’t have too many nights there, when we are one or two people from New York City’s central cold night came in, we will fall in love with sex. I was reminded of the grim welcome that his black leather jacket had received on my chest, and we were all excited, because even though I was asleep, I was going to be naked. After he took off his jacket, I wanted to be ready to push the butt off his shoulder, put it on the floor under the bed, and put his hand on his torso.

When he left, he shut the bedroom door behind him, I hear the key on the other side of the padlock – he installed the beat his drunkenness or stones back apartment partner constantly “borrow” his cigar, mini refrigerator, and hit me.

I told myself that he locked me in a sweet protective gesture. A few months later, I never imagined that the way to lock someone in the third floor would be wrong. How could I get out in an emergency? If, as happened in previous months, a nearby building caught fire, the dormitory was evacuated. What if I just need the bathroom? If he don’t trust most roommate realized that I was there, decided to flirt with me, or hide some cigars, drunk, tall, or just the courage, his six feet hit on the door of the fragile?

All of these problems came up late. But that night, I was alone and basically locked up, and I felt that suspicion had begun to spread. Slowly, from that moment on, I began to question my boyfriend, wondering who he was, mostly about his story. If a former policeman trusts a simple hardware store padlock, if he thinks I’m really in danger? Or is it an act that controls the freaks? The gun was in the glove box, and the man was often strapped under his leather jacket, often in his bedside drawer, or even legally? That night, while I waited, I kept some vague suspicions aside, and when he came back, he completely ignored his cold body.

* * *

He often warns: “never talk about my police work in front of my house.” “It could put them in danger.”

We saw a lot of his brothers, and his parents were often enough, because their home was only 80 miles away. Finally, I began to doubt that if I mentioned “the police,” he might have taken him to heart, and he was worried about being in danger – but I couldn’t. Maybe I don’t want to know. I fell in love with my first real lover, a person who cared about me, someone who was different from me, but I felt I could be safe, especially in bed. Although I may not have experienced this complete behavior before him, I have one, I know an exciting climax. Finally, I have a lot of these people almost every day. More importantly, we are serious and I want to continue to say love to those who love him. I want to stay in his brother’s apartment more weekend, want to continue to have a avoid drugs and drunk the night’s loyal boyfriend, want to continue to run, want to be such a person, I can stop all the trouble.

So I didn’t talk about his police work in front of his family. Neither do they.

* * *

When breaking up, and he has little to do in the past, and I realized that everything – just before the end of the spring semester tidy up at home, just after the pregnancy of the false alarm – I jumped up too fast and too deep into a not true love, there is a I don’t really know. That every time I go out to eat ice cream, don’t want to think the gun in the glove box, or every time he put pressure on my body, feels it under that jacket, or he could pick up the condom is reached.

When I began to spend too much time worrying about where is the gun, hope when you are not in the near, I finally realized that nothing sexy guns, get rid of the foreseeable I choose don’t need to involve the many unanswered questions, in the end, these stories are important – a picture to illustrate, a story can not say.

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