They say you always remember your \first time,"" the awkward motions, the poor lighting, the slightest scent of stale alcohol emanating from bottles strewn about the room. The most romantic of us certainly remember the music, providing a soundtrack for their first time.
My first time was especially memorable because I chose the music. Van Halen's ""Diver Down,"" my favorite album, spinning in the background, eternalized the moment-all the excitement, uncertainty and, of course, the nervousness.
Now, as I drop the needle on that very record, weathered and worn after countless rotations, vivid memories of my first time rush back, a surging wave of emotion crashing over me. The anticipation of the first time, the thrill of the act itself and the contentment after it was finished are instantly recalled as Diamond Dave asks, ""Where have all the good times gone?"" If I had another shot to do it all over again, to relive my first time, I wouldn't change a thing-the mood was right, the time was right, everything was right.
Yet in the weeks and months after, I began to lose sight of how wonderful my first time really was. The memory faded and was replaced by a new sensation: desire. Like a child in a candy store, I knew not of the virtues of moderation or self-control-I grabbed everything within my reach and devoured it all.
My voracious desire epitomized the ultimate crux of the human psyche-the more I got, the more I wanted. The sensation of the first time was overshadowed by my ravenous hunger for more-more frequent, more daring, more risqu??.
The simple beauty of the deed lost its rich, innocent splendor. I became a wild beast, rabidly frantic to occupy the ever widening void left by the magic of the first time, which had dwindled to little more than a dying ember of the flames of passion. I was insatiable; nothing would suffice until I had it all.
In my craving I turned to gimmicks, to tricks and games I thought would push my personal boundaries and drive me to blissful satisfaction. Role-playing, swaps and exotic themes; each week I was someone else, desperate to prove I could do it all.
Soon, everything became not enough, insufficient time, insufficient space, insufficient inspiration. The motions became routine, and I a prisoner of my own device. My appetite yearned for decadence while my heart cried out for an end. My tempestuous drive forced my aim ever higher, to the biggest and the best. Oh, what mountains I climbed! But now I wonder: did I miss the purity of the streams in the valleys below?
The first time was very special. Sitting down to write this, my penultimate column, I am taken back to that fateful summer day, a little more than two years ago. I was young and ready to take on the world, to experience for the first time what I had only dreamt of for so long: to write my very own column. As the end draws near, I am reminded of how much this meant to me then, and how much I will cherish this time in the future. The finish line is within sight now...
Did you think I was talking about something else?
Pete's final column will run next Wednesday in The Daily Cardinal. He can be reached at writePNL@yahoo.com.
