In the spirit of my previous post.

The first time he kissed me, it was soft and I wanted to moan because that’s what they do in the movies (right?) but my back was pushing against something sharp and his leg was digging roughly against me and the thing was I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to bite on his lip or not, but I did, and it made him laugh. My eyes were still open, and he’d laughed. Why did he laugh?
I dropped the water bottle I was holding because girls are supposed to put their arms around their man’s neck. He was looking down at me intently, chocolate eyes and all. He pushed back my hair gently, putting his other arm around my waist, and I shuddered as he dipped his mouth to my ear and whispered:
“Let’s go to your room.”

That was not the sweet nothing I expected. I froze, my body rigid, a coil ready to spring free. His arm tensed around me, and his smooth whisper was urgent, his eyes pleading. “No, no. Just to talk.”
The coils loosened.
“Just to talk?”
He pushed a strand of hair behind my ear, and smiled.

“Mmhmm. Just to talk.”

Walk. Talk. Maybe I should have known better, but to me, it felt like a movie. You can pause movies. You can press any button you want. You can rewind, you can skip, you can stop and take the disk out. I had the remote and my finger was hovering over the pause button. I thought. I think I thought. I thought it was like the movies.

He’d never thought that he’d look at a woman and not feel arousal. The way the male libido – or at least, his libido – seemed to work, he could look at a cardboard cutout of one and still feel the irresistible need to touch it.

“You’re not stiff, baby.” She pouted. “Does my little boy not want to play? Does he need some more…” Her nails raked into his chest, and his eyes watered. “Incentive?”

He shook his head furiously. He thought of women bare, the curve of their thighs, their gasps, their eyes drunk with arousal. But he could hear her panting. He could feel her silk scarf tying his hands to the bedposts, rubbing him raw. He could feel his buttocks, throbbing in pain from the dildo she had taunted him with. And he wilted.

“Oh, no.” She tutted, swatting his chest with her hand. “We’re gonna have to fix that, aren’t we.” The bed creaked as she heaved herself off, he suddenly smelled something foul, and she giggled. “Oops.” She waved her hand behind her. “Methane. Can’t do nothing about that.”

Dan felt an irrational urge to laugh, but he choked on his gag instead.

“Aha! Found it.” She laughed and hopped back on the bed, blueblue eyes crinkled in excitement. “You know what this is?” She held up what looked like a band. “It’s a ring. I’ll put it on little Danny, and my boy’ll stay right up!” She tiptoed her fingers up his thigh, “Come out, come out, and play!” She shoved it on him. “Now you’ll be ready for me, see? You’ll be ready, and you’ll stay ready. As long as I need you to, won’t you, baby.”

His eyes were watering, but real men never cried.

When he started to undress me, all I did was turn off the lights. I knew I could press pause. I knew I could stop. And we were talking.

“I’ve liked you forever, you know. Like, since summer.”

I was babbling, and he was unbuttoning my shirt. I felt like a doll. He pushed my arms up, and they were up.
“Yeah, yeah, me too. I’ve wanted to ask you out forever.” His shirt was off now, and his fingers were fumbling at his belt. “We’ll go on a date, tomorrow.”
My heart was skipping and his hands were trailing down my sides. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
His fingers reached my waist and pulled, kneaded at the skin, pinching it together. He laughed. “Love-handles. I love it.” If I were less brown, he would have seen my blush. I pried his fingers away. It only made him laugh more, and he hugged me, kissing my neck. I thought his hands on my back were meant to comfort. Then snap unclasped, my back was bare; I shivered. “Don’t worry. I said I loved it, didn’t I?”

He pushed me onto the bed and caged me with his body, his face disappearing into the side of my neck. My fingers dragged down his back. That was what I was supposed to do, right? Here’s when I moan.  My pants were off, and I didn’t remember pressing fast-forward. 

 “Hey. Um. I’ve never done this before.”

 “Mmhmm. Don’t worry about it.” He was fumbling with his jeans now, and my hands on his shoulders grew rigid.

“Hey, hey. Um.” I was trying to get him to look at me, my hands moving to his face to pull his gaze back to me. He looked annoyed, eyebrows slashing across his forehead. His eyes weren’t pretty anymore.

My fingers pressed the pause button. I want to pause. “Stop. No.” I tried to push my thighs together, but his knee was insistent.

“No, I don’t think I want to do this.” I was shaking my head, now, rapidly, side to side. Nuh-uh.

“No, I’ll make it good. Don’t worry about it.” His fingers dug into the sides of my panties, raking into my hips. He tried to push down, but my arms were stopping him. My body was revolting, and my eyes were wide and wild. I kicked and thrashed like a bird with a broken wing. An actress in a script. It was exactly like the movies. I was good. Good actresses don’t deviate from the script.

The girl in that bed had my long hair, my near-sighted eyes, my pudgy thighs. But it wasn’t me. I was above her, floating there, watching some dumb, useless bitch let a drunk boy shit on all my naïve, candle-lit, hopeful dreams. I took after the original fairytales, you know, the ones with blood and unhappy endings. I went to the ball and never got my glass slipper back.

 “Open your eyes, baby. Don’t you wanna see me?”

She took his gag out. “Talk to me.” When he didn’t, she slapped him.
“Oh, come on. You’re a boy. This is your lucky night.” She whispered in his ear, sticking her tongue into the crevices. “You should be happy, baby. Come on, give me something.” Her fingers wrapped themselves around his neck, and she squeezed until he gasped. “Come on.”

His voice was hoarse, his throat sore. He croaked, “Wh-what.” Her grip loosened. “What do you want me to say?” He whispered.
“Do you think I’m beautiful?”
Her hair was mussed, her eyes manic. In the light from the window she looked pale, like a ghost. Her fingers tightened on his throat again.
“Tell me.”
He coughed, swallowed. “Y-you’re beautiful.” She began to move, sliding up and down. She moaned.
“Tell me – tell me I’m sexy.”
He stared at the ceiling, bottom lip quivering. “You’re – you’re sexy.” He said.
“Look at me.” She grabbed his chin and forced it down.
He could feel his limbs, once taut, now falling limp at his sides. He looked at her, stared at her, and in those blueblue eyes he saw nothing. He felt nothing.
“Tell me you love me.”
He couldn’t see her, now. She gasped, but he couldn’t feel her. Somebody was crying, he thought. Somebody was shaking.
Somebody spoke. “I love you.”

The bed creaked.

 “You little shit.”

When Adam looked up, Johnny’s pants were unbuckled, his arousal out and unashamedly held in his hand. It was thick. Thicker than him. He met Johnny’s gaze, and he had never before thought eyes could twinkle with menace.
Johnny stepped back against a desk.
“Touch it.”
Adam hesitated, and then put his hand on himself. He wrapped his fingers around and watched Johnny, watched his hand move confidently up and down his own shaft.

“Move it.”

He didn’t. His legs shook and his eyes were mesmerized, watching Johnny’s head appear and disappear between his fingers. Johnny stopped, and Adam’s eyes shot up, begging.
“What?” Johnny smirked.


“Oh, this?” Johnny’s hand slowly pumped. “You like this? You little shit? You little homo piece of crap.” He grunted, his strokes growing stronger. Adam moaned, and started pumping. He imagined Johnny’s thick fingers on him.

“Not so fast.”

Adam pumped faster, enthralled.

“Slow down.” And the hand he had been watching was on his own, stilling his fingers. He groaned. Johnny was glaring. “You need to last.”

No, Adam thought. No, I need to come. But the fingers on his fingers wouldn’t let him move. So he dropped them. And his dark eyes met Johnny’s wide ones as alien digits lay a hand on his cock. There was something about feeling another hand on him. Or there was something about feeling Johnny’s. He didn’t know, but when Johnny didn’t move, he started thrusting, lips parted, gasping. As he watched, Johnny’s hand began to play along. It tightened, and as Adam grunted, he saw the lights in Johnny’s eyes wane, and he closed his own.


Adam grunted, gripping Johnny’s shoulders.


And he did, with a shudder, hot and thick over Johnny’s hand.

In the silence he tried to quell his shallow gasps, tried to keep still as the sweat trailing down his back tickled him. He followed the giving hand, slimy and sticky, rise and stand still in the air with fingers outstretched. Frozen.

“Look at me.”

Adam flinched. His eyes were hollow. “Johnny…“

“Shut up.”

Johnny raised his dripping hand and slowly dragged it down Adam’s face. Adam could feel his stickiness, its damp sour smell rank in his nose. He began to cry, and Johnny sneered, leaning in close.

“Fuck. You.”

And he left. His pants were still unzipped, resting on the angles of his hips. He held the hand that had touched Adam away from him, as if a foot’s separation could mask the stink. He didn’t look back.           

She didn’t forget to give his cold, fishy lips a sodden kiss, her tongue slithering over his one last time before she turned away. She didn’t put the rag back in.

“You won’t scream, now, will you?” Her fingers raked down his cheek as she chuckled. “No, of course not.”
The bed creaked as she stood up, pulling her sweater over her arms, her spindly fingers stretching out of the sleeves like thin little spider legs. At his whimper, she tutted.
“Oh come on, baby. Aren’t you glad you won’t die a virgin?”


One thought on “Freshman

  1. Pingback: Keep in Words | Make Good Art

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