more for the last little bit. The way he says the word
electric
, as though some probably pilfered dirty movie sent a charge direct through his body to his dick. I know how that feels, all right … oh, I remember the delight of digging through all kinds of movies and books, searching for that one illicit scene.
We have something in common there, I think – though I suppose everybody does. I’m not about to get excited over it, or anything. I mean, his next words
are
these:
‘I spent actual hours trying to imagine what she would feel like, around me, so I could emulate the sensation exactly. I’d slick my hand with every slippery product known to man, then fuck my fist into the mattress. It was a real time of sexual discovery, for me.
‘Does that sound sort of foo-foo?’
He’s laughing at himself, a little, but I hope it’s clear that I’m not joining in. I can’t even answer him. He just talked about fucking his fist into a mattress. I mean, the image of him standing naked in front of a mirror was bad enough.
This is turning my insides purple.
‘Well, maybe it is. But that’s how it was. I started understanding stuff I liked – slippery things, obviously. The amount of times I imagined oiling her all over with that suntan lotion of hers, then getting to ease myself between her soft thighs …
‘Though that wasn’t the only lesson I learnt. I realised pretty quick that holding off made it sweeter, when you finally let it happen. Sometimes I’d keep myself on the edge for hours, until my orgasm felt too intense to take. I felt feverish, too on edge. I felt like pheromones were leaking out of my pores. She
had
to notice me, eventually.’
I think he’s right. I’m noticing him, and I wasn’t even there. I’m fifteen years into the future and a million miles away from whatever American town he’s talking about, but I’m sure I can smell that earthy, saltwater scent from here. And though it’s never been something that particularly interested me, I find myself tingling at the idea.
What would it be like, to see him aroused and in this state? I don’t know, but I’m no longer content to wait and find out more.
‘And did she?’
‘It’d be a pretty weak story if she didn’t, right?’
He pauses, and for that one second I think he really means it. This is just some tale of for ever wanting and not getting. He could call it
The Madcap Adventures of Kit Connor
.
But then he continues – like a warden, granting his sexual prisoner a reprieve.
‘So, the longer this went on for, the worse things got. And the bolder I became. I stopped being satisfied with the bathroom, and makeshift masturbatory aids. I started wanting the smell of her perfume, the feel of her silk underwear against my skin. I turned into her stalker, slipping into her bedroom when I knew no one was around. Running my hands over the clothes in her wardrobe – the works. It got so bad I could get hard by stuffing my face into one of her couch cushions.
‘I was pathetic – but when I finally got caught, I tried to bluster it. I turned on the ridiculous swagger I thought I had. Think I even told her, “You want it, baby?” God, I was such a punk.’
‘You still
are
a punk,’ I say, but I don’t know if I really mean it. I don’t think punks talk so openly about their sexual habits, before admitting that they are one. And I definitely don’t think they look hurt, when some chick hurls the word at them.
Because that’s what it feels like I’ve done. His eyebrows draw together briefly, like a flicker of an expression he’d like to have, if it didn’t make him seem so vulnerable. And then it’s gone as quickly as it came, leaving me to wonder if it was ever really there at all. I mean, guys like him … they don’t care if girls like me think they’re a little … douche-y.
Right?
And if they do, oh, God, if they do, please let him just say. I’ll apologise if he just says. I can’t do so without it, because
electric
, as though some probably pilfered dirty movie sent a charge direct through his body to his dick. I know how that feels, all right … oh, I remember the delight of digging through all kinds of movies and books, searching for that one illicit scene.
We have something in common there, I think – though I suppose everybody does. I’m not about to get excited over it, or anything. I mean, his next words
are
these:
‘I spent actual hours trying to imagine what she would feel like, around me, so I could emulate the sensation exactly. I’d slick my hand with every slippery product known to man, then fuck my fist into the mattress. It was a real time of sexual discovery, for me.
‘Does that sound sort of foo-foo?’
He’s laughing at himself, a little, but I hope it’s clear that I’m not joining in. I can’t even answer him. He just talked about fucking his fist into a mattress. I mean, the image of him standing naked in front of a mirror was bad enough.
This is turning my insides purple.
‘Well, maybe it is. But that’s how it was. I started understanding stuff I liked – slippery things, obviously. The amount of times I imagined oiling her all over with that suntan lotion of hers, then getting to ease myself between her soft thighs …
‘Though that wasn’t the only lesson I learnt. I realised pretty quick that holding off made it sweeter, when you finally let it happen. Sometimes I’d keep myself on the edge for hours, until my orgasm felt too intense to take. I felt feverish, too on edge. I felt like pheromones were leaking out of my pores. She
had
to notice me, eventually.’
I think he’s right. I’m noticing him, and I wasn’t even there. I’m fifteen years into the future and a million miles away from whatever American town he’s talking about, but I’m sure I can smell that earthy, saltwater scent from here. And though it’s never been something that particularly interested me, I find myself tingling at the idea.
What would it be like, to see him aroused and in this state? I don’t know, but I’m no longer content to wait and find out more.
‘And did she?’
‘It’d be a pretty weak story if she didn’t, right?’
He pauses, and for that one second I think he really means it. This is just some tale of for ever wanting and not getting. He could call it
The Madcap Adventures of Kit Connor
.
But then he continues – like a warden, granting his sexual prisoner a reprieve.
‘So, the longer this went on for, the worse things got. And the bolder I became. I stopped being satisfied with the bathroom, and makeshift masturbatory aids. I started wanting the smell of her perfume, the feel of her silk underwear against my skin. I turned into her stalker, slipping into her bedroom when I knew no one was around. Running my hands over the clothes in her wardrobe – the works. It got so bad I could get hard by stuffing my face into one of her couch cushions.
‘I was pathetic – but when I finally got caught, I tried to bluster it. I turned on the ridiculous swagger I thought I had. Think I even told her, “You want it, baby?” God, I was such a punk.’
‘You still
are
a punk,’ I say, but I don’t know if I really mean it. I don’t think punks talk so openly about their sexual habits, before admitting that they are one. And I definitely don’t think they look hurt, when some chick hurls the word at them.
Because that’s what it feels like I’ve done. His eyebrows draw together briefly, like a flicker of an expression he’d like to have, if it didn’t make him seem so vulnerable. And then it’s gone as quickly as it came, leaving me to wonder if it was ever really there at all. I mean, guys like him … they don’t care if girls like me think they’re a little … douche-y.
Right?
And if they do, oh, God, if they do, please let him just say. I’ll apologise if he just says. I can’t do so without it, because
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