And I’m a little bit angry.

He called me early in the afternoon, told me about a girl he’d met at the beach.  She was an artist, he explained.  Blonde.  A college student.  “I think I’m in love,” he said.

That night, we sat on his parent’s pool deck, hidden around a corner.  We kissed, messy teenaged kisses, his tongue big and wet.  A mosquito buzzed at my ear.  Cicadas thrummed.

When he slipped his hand into my jeans, I squirmed.  Not there.

So I wiggled off the rickety plastic lounge chair and knelt between his knees.  I closed my eyes and opened my mouth and the next few minutes went by quickly.  Musky scent.  Smooth skin.  I don’t remember if I swallowed him.

When he was done I sat up and caught my breath and he mumbled, “Monkey.”

My stomach turned a little and laughed.  Nervously.

“Do you want uh… a drink of water or something?”

“Sure,” I said.

He went inside and I shifted to the pool, rolled up my jeans and put my feet in the water.  I watched ripples spread across the surface. The water looked milky in the dark.

I drove too fast on the way home.  I avoided my parents’ eyes and went to bed with my headphones on, the music too loud.

**

“You have a weird body,” he observed, gripping my thin hipbones and regarding the expanse of my naked torso.

My moles, I thought.  They’re big.  And those two tiny, shriveled pale extra nipples below my breasts.  And my bush, I thought, untamed and dark.  Unattractive.

I turned my cheek against his sheets.

I love the way you play piano.  I love your deep voice and the way it feels when you touch my hair.  I want you to like me.  Why don’t you like me, like that.

I laughed nervously.

He stopped putting his hands on my body and I rolled over and tried to make him happy again.  His brother walked in and we both froze.  I shivered, naked, and lowered my eyes.

His brother snickered and walked back out.

This time it took longer, and I didn’t like it.  I got dressed, hurriedly, recalling the rustle of paper gowns at the gynecologist.  Clinical, detached nudity.  He didn’t like me, like that.

**

I drove home, too fast.  The buildings beside the three-land road blurred by and then I saw a big fountain to the left.  The Catholic cemetery.

I pulled over, eyes hot, and drove along the familiar winding road with no lines until I reached a huge rectangular headstone.

“I’m sorry,” I sobbed, stumbling through the thick grass.  I knelt beside her and pulled my knees up and cried in the shade of a tall oak. “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.”

I had just turned eighteen.  He was my second kiss.  He was not my boyfriend.  He didn’t like me.  I could taste him still, and I could feel his indifferent gaze and the searing imprint of his touch.

I curled on my side in the grass.  A gnat tickled my cheek.  I breathed until my breath evened and then I never let him touch me again.

Tagged as: aiming too low, assholes, being a girl, identity, self-esteem