Lane Two
by: Shannon T. Boodram, Ontario
It was July of 2001 and I was sweet sixten, doing some big things. I was on the warm-up track, getting my body ready for my first race in the World Youth Track and Field Championship in Debrecen, Hungary. I sat in the middle of the field, stretching my legs while a bunch of butterflies were doing lord knows what in my stomach. I looked up and saw one of the other girls on Team Canada coming toward me. The team was a collection of athletes from across the country, so I had only met some of these people a few days prior. If this had been any one of my regular teammates, she would have known better than to bother or talk to me close to race time.
“Nervous?” she asked, sitting beside me.
“Always.”
“Aren’t you going to watch the 100 meters? M is running now.”
I looked up at the big screen that was set up so competitors could watch their teammates run from the warm-up area just outside the arena. A bunch of boys were setting their blocks in their skintight suits. Then the camera panned across the eight competitors and did a close-up on each athlete as the monitor displayed his name and the country he was representing.
It’s one of those details I will never forget: Alex, Great Britain, Lane Two.
“He is freakin’ gorgeous!”
“But you can’t see his teeth. You know British people all have messed-up smiles.” My teammate nudged me, then laughed at her own comment.
I ignored her remark; she was irritating me and distracting me from the Adonis on the screen. I had honestly never seen anybody that good looking before in my life, not even on TV or in a magazine. He was mocha skinned, probably half black and half white, with a clean fade and slanted eyes. The race started, and as my friend cheered for our teammate, I just kept my eyes on Lane Two.
I went on with my day; I ran my races and looked around like a madwoman to catch another eyeful of Lane Two, but he seemed to have vanished. As soon as I finish competing, I am always in a magnificent mood, and some of the other Team Canada girls and I walked around, checking out guys and taking pictures of the cute ones for a calendar we had joked about creating.
The following day, after I completed my other races, I went on a stakeout (more like a stalk-out) to find Lane Two and get a picture of him. I found him in Great Britain’s main tent, but coaches and trainers surrounded him, so I decided to wait on the field until they cleared out. After about half an hour of waiting, I came to two conclusions: The people were never leaving, and I looked like a frigging idiot. So I finally decided to bite the bullet.
I got up off the ground, strolled right into the tent, looked at Lane Two, and said, “Picture?” as I pointed at my little disposable camera.
“Sure.”
He stepped outside the tent; I took my picture and said my thanks, then took off. You ever see one of those movies where the girl gets around the guy she likes and makes a total fool of herself? I speed-walked my way out of the warmup area and onto the main road to catch a streetcar back to my hotel.
Just as I reached the sidewalk, someone yelled, “Canada! Canada!” (You have to say it with a British accent to get the full effect, so go ahead and read it again.) “Can I get a picture of you?”
I told him that it would have to wait until I came back, after I had showered and gotten out of my track clothes. He said when will you come back and I said I don’t know. He asked if it would be easier if he just came back to my hotel with me and waited for me in the lobby. I said if you want. He did.
He told me his name was Alex. He may have been just less than six feet, and he was half and half, as I had suspected. When I tell you this guy was beautiful, I’m not exaggerating. As we walked toward the streetcar stop, people were literally turning their heads. Several girls from Bulgaria even tugged his shirt as they passed, but he smiled and freed his arm while he continued walking and talking with me. I felt really special.
We got off the streetcar and walked into my hotel, past the lobby, and toward my room. Conversation was just flowing, and the nerves that had consumed me an hour before were nowhere to be found. When we reached my room, he just stood awkwardly by the door.
“You can sit down. I’ll only be a few minutes. I promise.”
He sat down on the bed, then motioned for me to join him. “You have the most unbelievable eyes. Didn’t know that Canada made beautiful girls.”
I nodded, then escaped into the bathroom, where I could blush in private. I had my shower and got dressed. When I opened the bathroom door, he was on my bed, stretched out in just a pair of shorts.
“Sorry, it got hot in here since you had the shower running for so long.”
“Yeah, I had to wash my hair. You can take that picture now.”
“Not with that on. You have to put something Canadian on.” He fingered through my bag and pulled out a T-shirt. I walked over to him, took off my shirt so I was wearing just a bra, and stretched out my hand for the shirt he had chosen. He gave me his hand instead and pulled himself up so he stood centimeters away from my face. He was so close I could feel his erection. Oh my gosh! We kissed, then went to the bed and kissed and touched and kissed.
Things were moving too fast, and I was not sure how to stop it or if I wanted to stop it. Part of me wanted to make a bond with him that would make our distance seem like nothing.
Another part wondered what it was like to be a part of someone so beautiful. And the sensible side of me sat back like an invalid all the while, as the ignorant voice inside me encouraged, He’s wonderful—who better to give yourself to for the first time than someone you adore?
“Come inside,” I invited foolishly. This is what is going to make us special, I thought as I peeled off my panties and offered
my vagina for the first time.
“You’re sure?”
Yes.”
The next motion was so swift, it’s hard to say exactly how it happened. He slid his boxers to the crease under his knees, smiled softly at me, and then attempted to push his hardened member in me unprotected. For some reason, I did not want to watch; I closed my eyes and bit down on my unsteady smile. Ouch! My eyes shot open as he tried to push his way inside my vagina. He tried again but was still unsuccessful. What are you doing? my common sense screamed, making its first appearance during the whole ordeal. He began to move in toward my throbbing crotch once more, but instinctively I moved my hands up to obstruct his momentum. He fixed his eyes on mine.
“Wait, do you have an STD?” I blurted out. I’m not sure why I bothered to ask, honestly—like he was actually going to say, “Yeah, Shannon, I’m HIV positive” or something. But I guess I felt like I had done my part to protect myself.
“No, of course not. You have to relax your muscles down there, okay?” he said, moving my hands away and kissing me on the forehead.
I exhaled, then focused on making my body limp. He pushed again, but when he still couldn’t fit, he applied more pressure. The pain was ridiculous. My eyes started to tear up. He pushed a little harder and finally broke through. I felt something snap inside me; then the pain was gone and replaced by a feeling of nothingness. Maybe it was numbness— I’m not quite sure how to explain it.
So this is the first time, I thought, lying on my back with my hands clasped around his neck.
The next day was the final day of competition. I ran my relay races, and Alex met me in the warm-up area afterward and did my cooldown with me. It was really neat just jogging, laughing, and sharing tiny pieces of myself with someone I hardly knew, yet who knew a part of me that no one else in the world did. Even though sex had been a huge physical letdown, I was still pleased to have been so close to someone I believed
I really cared for.
“You’re pretty nifty, eh,” I said in my best lumberjack accent.
“And you are one swinging babe,” he said, doing possibly the worst Austin Powers impression I have ever heard.
I smiled and kissed him just below his lips. He looked at me unalarmed and smiled back.
The meet organizers had set up a street party outside my hotel for all of the athletes to attend, so we both went back to our separate hotels to get ready. By 10:00 pm, my roommates had already gone down, and I was hurriedly fidgeting in the mirror when I heard a knock at my door. It was Alex. I let him come inside. I knew we meant to go downstairs, but somewhere in between my naive nature and his ulterior agenda we found ourselves kissing and sexing once again. While he pushed his body into mine, I lay thinking of a million and one girlie things: what our kids would look like, fantasizing about us being the world’s superstar track couple, wondering how we could move around our distance. I could feel his body stiffening inside mine, and I held tighter, not prepared to let him go just yet. I liked being so close to him this way. It made me feel important, like I was the only one who could make his body roll this way. All of a sudden, he yanked free of my grasp and rushed out of my body. I knew something had gone horribly wrong.
“I think I got out in time.”
“No! I don’t think you did!”
“Sorry.”
I sat there silently wondering if it really was a big deal or not. I brought my head to his chest. “Now what?”
Alex glanced at his Timex. “It’s almost one. The bus will be leaving soon, and the coaches are going to get angry if they
knew I was up in some girl’s room.”
I was jarred. He slid out of my arms, got dressed, and yanked me up to hug goodbye.
“Wait, I’ll walk you.”
He glanced down at his watch again, then at me. “Hurry, then.”
I got dressed and tried to match his speed as he exited my space and flew down the stairs. There were so many things I still wanted to talk to him about. He reached the lobby and stopped once we exited the front doors. I grabbed both of his hands and raised my green eyes, which he’d told me he loved so much, to meet his.
“Goodbye, love.” He gave me a peck before loosening my grip and quickening his pace. I stood there, numb. I let him get a few yards away before I found the words and called out his name, then ran to meet him. I pulled him in close and kissed him deeply, then waited for him to make the next move, waited for him to ask the question that was weighing down my tongue, wanting him to ask when he could see me again.
He opened his eyes and smiled at me. “I have to go before I get in trouble.”
He took off again with renewed speed, and I never did get his phone number or email address, nor did I ever see Alex of lane two again. Confused about how I felt about my short-lived relations and Alex’s reaction, the next day I told one of my teammates what had happened.
“Shannon, you dog!” was all he said before breaking into a fit of high-fives and laughs.
Had I done something right? I left my unsettled feelings alone and decided to leave the past in the past, but unfortunately,
this memory was unable to forget about me. Shortly after I got back home, the dreams started. I dreamed I saw Alex and asked him all of the questions I should have asked weeks ago: How many partners have you had? Why don’t you carry protection? What will you do if I get pregnant? How do you feel about me? Where will having sex leave us? Alex had no answers. I felt so disgusted with myself for wasting my virginity on someone who didn’t give a damn about me. I had pawned myself off for nothing; it hadn’t even been physically pleasurable.
I was embarrassed, I felt low, but I was determined to right my wrongs by twisting the truth. I told my best friend what had happened and laughed about how I didn’t care if I ever heard from Alex again.
“Yeah, I got his number, but who wants to call long-distance? It was just sex.”
I described every erotic detail that I could think up and bragged about how amazing it was. It turns out I was a good
liar, but the worst was yet to come. Less than three weeks after having sex with Alex, I got an irritating itch in my vagina. I had no idea how to deal with these strange side effects or where to go to find out and I sure as hell was not going to my family doctor. So, being the little girl that I was, I told myself to wait for it to erase itself.
Six months later, and no miracle—in fact, it had gotten progressively worse. I broke down one evening and told my older sister what I had done and how I was feeling. I cried. I had never been so embarrassed in my life. The following week, she took me to a sexual-health clinic. I was terrified and I begged her to come inside the office with me, but she refused. After all, I was grown enough to have sex on my own. The nurse asked me questions, and I cried during the whole Q&A period. I had to get undressed from the waist down, and the doctor came in to see me. To my surprise, the doctor was a man, and I instinctively hid my nakedness and cried again. The nurse was called in, and she assured me that
I would be fine. She stayed with me while the doctor did a Pap and drew blood for HIV testing. In two weeks, they would have my results and I would finally get some answers.
I cried every night. I was sure that I had something, but the thought of HIV scared me the most. For the past six months I’d gone on living, not knowing that I could be dying. What was worse was that I could have been putting the people who really loved me at risk. After those two weeks, I went in for my results: I was healthy. I have no idea how, because the things I felt were so real. The doctor suggested that my condition may have been psychological, since I had been so worried about it, or perhaps had been a recurring yeast infection that had cleared up on its own. I left the clinic feeling alive, and I vowed to never put myself in the line of fire again. My best friend bought my story, but the worst was yet to come; I got caught up in the lies, pressure, and fictitious stories of sex. I wanted to feel empowered, I wanted to be the girl every guy wanted, so I turned myself into someone that I am not proud of.
Looking back now, I realize that getting an STI and feeling the physical consequences might have been the best thing for me. Maybe then I would have felt the effects of my irresponsibility, truly learned from my mistakes, and made the necessary changes to stop myself from disrespecting and misusing my body again.
