a great performance for her girlfriend and thecringing girls and women at the doctorâs waiting room, so I guess she was satisfied.
We got to the drugstore and I got my pills. Mom got some pills, too. By the time I started taking mine, she had already taken one too many of her own, and was gone again.
I didnât really get to notching up too many bedposts until starting around fifteen. It was a slow turn of the crank until I went full throttle slut bag. Probably because I wouldnât fuck anybody weird, or anyone I knew and certainly no one I liked. That seriously limited my pool.
Most of my trysts were with my many punk-rock acquaintances in Cambridge and Boston. If I liked someone, though, I was a disaster. There was a boy in a neighboring town I loved desperately, forever.
Bill.
Saying his name now, I can still recall the ache and how I would sigh. My first blowjob recipient, he also taught me about handjob etiquette, put hickies on my boobs, smelled really good, and was a fantastic kisser. But we never ever had sex.
I couldnât figure out how to get the two together, the likingand the fucking. If I had feelings for someone, for me it was a sad guarantee that they would never like me back, no matter what I did. It was instant agony. If my heart leapt at the sight of them or the sound of their name, I knew it was hopeless. I was that chick who would call the guy maniacally until he (or better yet, his parents ) would pick up and yell âStop calling!â I was the girl whoâd show up uninvited to parties and stare miserably at whomever it was I was obsessed with. I couldnât see it then, but when I felt anything like love for another person, I would really be just like my mom, who confounded and terrified the people she loved the most until we all scattered away from her as if she were a bad smell. I spent most of my tweens feeling like a turd in a punch bowl, but having feelings for someone turned me into an insta-leper. That, coupled with the fact that I actually wanted someone to love me, filled me with hot-faced shame.
I had no shame about sex though, nor anything around it; it all seemed normal and natural. My biggest problem was that I made too big a deal about it, secretly wanted it to mean more. A desperate flutter in my chest, hoping that whatâs-his-name or whoever was bending me over in a bathroom stall, would see something in me and think I was special. That they would see I was more than that, and try to fuck some sense into me. Then one day the flutter gave a cool thud, my heart balled into a fist and gave the world the finger.
The guy was, I think, thirtyish. He was some muckity-muck business professional with a law degree, and we were both guests at a wedding. It was a sweltering day in a deep green part of New England, and we were all partying around a pool. Everyone hadbathing suits on under their formalwear, and as soon as the word came down from the mother of the bride that the classy part of the wedding was over, people peeled off their clothes quickly. Through the wavy blur of humidity, the huge lawn was littered with discarded poufy dresses. The grass looked like it had sprung a bunch of prehistoric flowers, all pinks, blues, and multicolored, wilting in the oppressive temperature.
I was sixteen years old and in a bit of a Goth phase, short spiky blonde hair, black cat eyeliner and black everything. I wanted to be too cool for the pool, but it was superhot and the party was quickly turning into a drunken free-for-all, and getting fun, so I peeled out of my witchy-poo dress, tossed it behind me with a flourish, and walked off the diving board.
I could feel the guy staring, and once I confirmed that he was, swam under water and hid among groups of people to see if he would look for me. Once that was confirmed, I commenced fucking with him. Swimming around his legs, kicking water in his face, then taking off to the opposite end to glare at him. He asked a
We got to the drugstore and I got my pills. Mom got some pills, too. By the time I started taking mine, she had already taken one too many of her own, and was gone again.
I didnât really get to notching up too many bedposts until starting around fifteen. It was a slow turn of the crank until I went full throttle slut bag. Probably because I wouldnât fuck anybody weird, or anyone I knew and certainly no one I liked. That seriously limited my pool.
Most of my trysts were with my many punk-rock acquaintances in Cambridge and Boston. If I liked someone, though, I was a disaster. There was a boy in a neighboring town I loved desperately, forever.
Bill.
Saying his name now, I can still recall the ache and how I would sigh. My first blowjob recipient, he also taught me about handjob etiquette, put hickies on my boobs, smelled really good, and was a fantastic kisser. But we never ever had sex.
I couldnât figure out how to get the two together, the likingand the fucking. If I had feelings for someone, for me it was a sad guarantee that they would never like me back, no matter what I did. It was instant agony. If my heart leapt at the sight of them or the sound of their name, I knew it was hopeless. I was that chick who would call the guy maniacally until he (or better yet, his parents ) would pick up and yell âStop calling!â I was the girl whoâd show up uninvited to parties and stare miserably at whomever it was I was obsessed with. I couldnât see it then, but when I felt anything like love for another person, I would really be just like my mom, who confounded and terrified the people she loved the most until we all scattered away from her as if she were a bad smell. I spent most of my tweens feeling like a turd in a punch bowl, but having feelings for someone turned me into an insta-leper. That, coupled with the fact that I actually wanted someone to love me, filled me with hot-faced shame.
I had no shame about sex though, nor anything around it; it all seemed normal and natural. My biggest problem was that I made too big a deal about it, secretly wanted it to mean more. A desperate flutter in my chest, hoping that whatâs-his-name or whoever was bending me over in a bathroom stall, would see something in me and think I was special. That they would see I was more than that, and try to fuck some sense into me. Then one day the flutter gave a cool thud, my heart balled into a fist and gave the world the finger.
The guy was, I think, thirtyish. He was some muckity-muck business professional with a law degree, and we were both guests at a wedding. It was a sweltering day in a deep green part of New England, and we were all partying around a pool. Everyone hadbathing suits on under their formalwear, and as soon as the word came down from the mother of the bride that the classy part of the wedding was over, people peeled off their clothes quickly. Through the wavy blur of humidity, the huge lawn was littered with discarded poufy dresses. The grass looked like it had sprung a bunch of prehistoric flowers, all pinks, blues, and multicolored, wilting in the oppressive temperature.
I was sixteen years old and in a bit of a Goth phase, short spiky blonde hair, black cat eyeliner and black everything. I wanted to be too cool for the pool, but it was superhot and the party was quickly turning into a drunken free-for-all, and getting fun, so I peeled out of my witchy-poo dress, tossed it behind me with a flourish, and walked off the diving board.
I could feel the guy staring, and once I confirmed that he was, swam under water and hid among groups of people to see if he would look for me. Once that was confirmed, I commenced fucking with him. Swimming around his legs, kicking water in his face, then taking off to the opposite end to glare at him. He asked a
Similar Books
