A memory

It was our second time together. The first was on New Year’s Day at the bowling alley I hung out at as a kid. I was on a date with an old flame, trying to rekindle a past romance while I was in town. He was there with mutual friends. We shared a lane.

The second time, we didn’t stop talking. We texted. We emailed. We talked.

The second time was Spring break. and I was 17

He was home; his parents were at work. I drove my grandmother’s Nissan to his house. Parked out front. We sat on the couch, and I remember looking at the inside of his home for the first time. Sparsely decorated. Small. Dirty carpets.

He got up to let the dog outside, and sat back down in the recliner next to me. I walked toward him, and his hands found my legs. Unbuttoned my pants. Pulled them down.

I was wearing red lace when I straddled him.

He was worried his parents would come home and see us in the living room, so we went downstairs to his bedroom. He kissed me. Passionately. We undressed ourselves.

He pulled me to the bed, still kissing. We didn’t pull away from one another. He tried to slide into me. But fell out. He tried again. And again.
Finally he got a rhythm going. The headboard hit the wall. Books fell to the floor. I don’t remember feeling pleasure, but I remember him being out of breath. No condom, just birth control pills.

We were getting dressed as the back door slammed, announcing his parents came home. He ran up stairs, motioning for me to hurry. In a daze, I threw on my clothes, and patted down my hair. I looked for an alibi. A reason to be downstairs. I found a bookshelf with photo albums, and grabbed one. I dashed upstairs after him, photos in hand, and asked his mom to show me some old photos.

She sat next to me as she looked through the photos. I hoped I didn’t smell of sex. I wasn’t a virgin any more.


~ by shespeakstruth on October 29, 2012.