I was nervous, waiting to meet S in that pizza shop. I drank a whole liter of water before he showed up, and when he did I pretended to do physics work. I wanted to vomit and cry and scream all at the same time, I was so anxious. When he did arrive, I wanted the earth to swallow me up. He looked good, as always, wearing a white shirt and black jeans. I smiled awkwardly, dropping my notebook into my bag.
“Hi.” I murmured, shaking. He seemed unfazed.
“So… do you want to eat something?”
“Haha, no thanks. Don’t feel weird if you do, though. I just… um. Ate. So, yeah, go for it.” I indicated to the man at the counter, looking at me as if I were some kind of awful freeloader, given that I had only ordered a bottle of water. I smiled apologetically.
When S stood to collect his food, I inhaled sharply. Why am I so nervous and turned on and freaked out? I must seem like I’m on cocaine. I looked down at my knees, feeling inadequate. I have an urge to leave.
“So how’ve you been?” He says, mouth full of pizza. The ends of my lips curl upward.
“Fine. I mean… stressed, but fine.” Once again I have the urge to leave. I don’t want to fall into old habits and begin unloading on him. But I do. “Physics is pretty much ruining my life and I want to barf over everything. I fucking hate it.”
S laughs, tossing his head back, peach curls going everywhere.
“I missed you,” he says, looking me in the eyes, his blues boring into my hazels. Maybe the stereotype of soulless gingers isn’t totally untrue. He seems to want to steal mine.
“Yeah. Me, too.” I sigh, “So, what should we do?”
“My house is pretty boring.” He tells me, which I know means, “my house isn’t empty”.
“Um, we could go to mine.”
We walk the three blocks to my house, breathing in the smoggy city air and slowly becoming more comfortable with each other. Nine months is a long time.
We’re in front of my apartment, and I become a little hyper from nervousness. I fumble with my keys.
We’re inside my room, talking about what? Life? Endlessness? It usually comes to this.
“I want to die a lot of the time,” I say.
“I hate everyone around me,” He replies. I’m on the bed, he’s on the floor. We’re both looking away from each other.
“I wish things had turned out differently,” I murmur, turning away and curling into the fetal position. There’s a silence as I stare at my poster-covered wall, letting that silence be filled with the jazz playing on my record player.
S sits on my bed, and I dully feel the weight of him next to me. He puts a hand on my head, and runs a thumb up and down my cheek. I sniff and turn to him. He looks at me and smiles sadly. I bite my lower lip and bury my head in a pillow. A minute passes, and he’s lying down next to me, and we’re spooning. I can’t decide whether this is meant to be comforting or romantic. Regardless, it feels like neither—it feels oddly arousing. I tuck my knees closer and unconsciously push my ass towards him. I blush and refuse to acknowledge it.
We’re quiet for a minute, and then S wraps his arms around me. I take his hand. I don’t know where this is going, or how it got here.
“What are we doing?” S whispers. I swallow. I have no answer. He tentatively cups my breast. I grit my teeth, heart stuck in my throat. I breathe in, breathe out. This is such a bad idea, after all this time. I want to move away, but I don’t. I remain immobile. He begins to massage my breast, and I moan involuntarily. His lips are close to my neck, brushing lightly against my pulse. Yeah, really, what are we doing? My breath hitches when he pinches my nipple through my shirt. I turn around, hands gripping his shoulders. I’m breathing heavily, and so is he.
“I—what is this?” I ask, dimly aware of the heat between my legs that I hadn’t noticed before.
“I don’t know.” S blinks at me. He takes my hips and pulls me to him. I wrap my arms around him, our noses touching: his crooked, freckly one, and my straight, dark one. He kisses me. It’s nothing like it was three years ago. It’s hot, full of uncertain passion and anger. We were fourteen. Now we’re sixteen. It’s all different. I run my fingers through his hair, getting caught in his messy curls. His hands are on my breasts, pinching and squeezing. The intermingled pain/pleasure is surging through me like an electric current. I love him. We start making out, tongues touching tongues. This is completely unreal. I’ve never felt so wanted, so needed. Not even with my boyfriend. This is my best friend, the one I share anything and everything with. It makes sense for us to share this, too.
His hand finds the hem of my dress and I find that delicious patch of skin between his jeans and his shirt. He experimentally kisses my neck and lightly runs his fingers up my thigh. I mewl in desperation. Come on, I urge him with my mind. I buck my hips up. He grunts against my neck, nibbling at my collarbone. All of a sudden, I have this awful moment of clarity, and push him away. His lips don’t detach from my neck, but the rest of his body moves away.
“What—what are we doing?” I sigh, twisting my eyes shut. He stops his assault on my neck and looks at me. He looks worried.
“I don’t know. It just felt… right,” He surveys me, watching my face for any signs of discomfort, “Was I wrong?”
“No… but, there’s things we haven’t said, things that haven’t… haven’t had closure.” I’m holding onto him for dear life.
“Do you have feelings for me?”
I say nothing. He doesn’t have to hear it from me. He knows the answer.
“But you don’t want me.”
A feeling of foreboding begins pooling in my chest.
“Because you’re still angry at me.”
I look at a point on my ceiling behind him. The record’s stopped playing.
“Look at me,” I hear. S cups my face in his hands. “I’m sorry for what I did. I was immature. And I’m sorry you were the only one who had to deal with my sociopathic bullshit. I fucked up, and now I’m alone. I loved you. I love you. This is so, so fucked up for both of us, but—“
“Stop it.” I whisper. I regret bringing this to a standstill. I want to go back to the sex. I don’t want all these… feelings. S has just opened old wounds. He kisses my tears away
“I’m yours,” he says, between kisses, “I’m yours.”
“Oh.” I kiss him. These feelings are special, I think. They’re not recycled.
“I’m sorry it all got so fucked up.” He seems to enjoy that phrase, ‘fucked up’. I guess he has a point; this entire situation is fucked up. My dress is hiked up to my waist, his pants are partially unbuttoned, and his shirt is already halfway off. Everything we’re doing is poignantly speckled with old love, new love, lust, and our own uncertainty about everything. I lose my hand among the tangle of our limbs, and I forget whose arm is whose. My phone rings, and before I can react, S digs his short nails into my shoulder mid-kiss.
“Don’t.” he commands gruffly, before trailing kisses down to my chest.
“Wait.” I say. His blue eyes gaze up at me hopefully. I sit up and pull my dress off. I want to get my tits out. I feel as if it’s necessary. S takes his shirt off. For a minute we just look at each other in awe, as if it’s so shocking that we’ve actually come to this point.
I reach my hands behind me and S’s eyes widen. I toss my bra away and my body warms at his excited look. I bite my lip, and he kisses me fiercely, toppling the both of us over. He kisses my breasts, teasing and licking. Trying hard to keep a clear mind, I reach my hands down and try to pull his pants down (he helps), only to find his arousal pressing against me. I stroke it and S pauses for a moment. He, too, reaches his hand down, tickling the waistband of my underwear. He gets closer and closer to my aching center through the cloth and as I stroke him I buck my hips upwards, begging him. We’re both exchanging heated breaths with kisses.
“Let’s take these off.” S whispers huskily, fingering my blue panties. I nod, trying to do it myself. He stills my hand. He kisses my navel and the sensitive spot just below my hipbone how did he remember I am ticklish there? He hooks his fingers in my underwear and slowly, painfully slowly pulls them down. He runs his hands up the insides of my legs before settling where I need him the most.
He circles my opening and I pull his face up to mine, “Do it.” I whisper shakily. He nods and presses his lips against mine. He slides a finger inside me, and I let out a small whimper. He smiles against my lips. I am made into jelly by the overwhelming pleasure of it all. His fingers expertly stroking just where I need it, the warmth of his mouth as it covers my nipple. He swallows each of my moans as he adds another finger. He almost sends me over the edge.
I mewl softly when he takes his fingers out. He looks at me and licks his fingers, satisfied. I almost die from that action on its own. He pulls his boxers down. He lied. There are a few freckles on his penis. Nothing substantial, but there are enough to acknowledge. I smile to myself. I reach for a kiss. We look at each other, his forehead leaning against mine.
I breathe a laugh at his relief. S positions himself, and the both of us breathe in the same breath. In a second, he’s inside me. I grit my teeth for a moment, and he wraps his fingers around my ear.
“Are you okay?”
“Perfect…” I hiss, hands on his lower back, pushing him closer to me. This all feels too delicious. S filling me, touching me in all the right places. He slowly starts to move. A moan escapes from deep in my throat. My nails dig into his shoulders as we move together, gradually picking up the pace as we rock against each other. I find his lips. He smoothes a hand through my hair. He groans into my mouth, eyes squeezed shut. Every kiss, every stroke, every caress was a declaration of I’m sorry. Of I want to fix this. Of I love you.
I’m not sure what I need, but whatever I need S manages to give to me. He increases our speed, pulling out all the way out just to slam back into me, never breaking our rhythm. His hand reaches between us and finds that tight bundle of nerves begging for attention. I nearly scream as he rubs me, in perfect time with every stroke as we drive faster and faster towards oblivion. Finally I felt it, a wave crashing onto the shore; my arms locked around his neck, my quaking legs biting into his bony hips as I come. He, too, stiffens against me, a guttural groan escaping him. My toes curl. Utter spent, he collapses on me, still buried inside me. My hand tangle in his curls, the other tracing indeterminable letters on his back. He shudders.
“What now?” I ask.