Visceral Lit

{October 11, 2007}  

Time didn’t pass the same way in adolescence as it does now. Years leap by and months and weeks are a blur, but when I was young, the four months I could call him mine were somehow longer, more significant that I can quite wrap my head around in these days.

I learned a lot about myself in those months. About what I wanted for my heart and what I wanted for my body and what exactly it meant to be someone’s “girlfriend”. And then it was over. There was no drama, no big fight or waterfalls of heartbroken tears. Just a mutual agreement that this relationship would never, could never work the way each of us wanted it to and that was that.

And the next day I went to camp for six weeks. I knew very few people there, I could reinvent myself. I wasn’t going to be shy and withdrawn, afraid of the idea of misstep. I would seize life (and the boys in it) by the balls and I would turn myself into the girl I wanted to be. The one who initiated those moments I so desperately wanted to have. I’d kiss him first, I’d suggest something twice as dirty as he’d had in mind. For six weeks, I could be a sexual dynamo if I liked and return home confident and equipped to be in control of my own destiny. To have the relationships I wanted to have with boys.

No more awkward fumbling, no more impressions of a deer caught in the headlights. Just to be able to answer what my libido clamoured for: Sex

And it was then that I met him. Strange now to admit I don’t remember his name. I do remember that as a staff member, three years my senior, he was strictly forbidden to “fraternize” with me, a senior camper.

I do remember brown eyes that burned and blazed with a fiery passion when we kissed and I remember definitely being the one making all the improper suggestions.

“I’ve broken up with my boyfriend and what I’m really after is some meaningless rebound sex.” I’ve always been blunt like that. Honest to a fault.

At first he resisted, and I really didn’t care. He was far from the only boy I’d propositioned. Certainly one of them would come through and between them, I wasn’t picky.

We met one evening, behind the dental school building. We were followed and after some hurried groping were forced to move, again and again. We made plans for somewhere more private another night.

Each time we pressed our bodies together, the layers of cotton and denim feeling more constrictive than they ever had before. His zipper down to free a giant erection, my top pushed up in the front, bra pulled down to reveal flushed, pert breasts. Each time scrambling suddenly to cover ourselves as we heard the approach of security boots.

After a few meetings, he was gone. Erased from the camp records thoroughly as if he had never existed there. Asking around I found he’d been spotted repeatedly fraternizing with a camper. No-one knew who the camper was. I kept myself to myself. Only one person figured it out and chimed out her surprised envy.

I saw him, months later, walking down the street. I averted my eyes and veered off in another direction. The slut had been laid to rest, satisfied with her meaningless rebound sex and off once again in the hazy optimism of “boyfriend”.

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