Maame(43)

I take a small breath. “That would be nice.”



* * *



“You have an actual bar?” I ask as Ben opens a cupboard in his kitchen. My heart is tapping and my legs feel weak. The lock of his front door clicking shut was resounding. Just keep talking. “How did I not notice that before?”

“There’s a reason I had this kitchen designed to include a lot of cupboards,” he says. “What drink would you like?”

“Well, it is a Friday night, so I’ll have a virgin mojito, please.”

Ben snorts. “Sure,” he says, pouring dark liquor into the bottom of a tumbler and sliding it to me. “One virgin mojito.”

I look at him. “Believe me when I say, I know what a virgin mojito looks like and this is not it.” I lift the glass. “There’s hardly anything in here for a start.” I take a gulp and it instantly dries my throat. “Ben,” I gasp. “What the fuck?”

He laughs. “Welcome to the wonderful world of whiskey. You’ll want to sip it.”

“Too late, I’ve finished it now. Oh, my eyes are watering.”

He leaves the bar to kiss me and hold my face in his hands. “You’re wonderful,” he says. “So … new.”

“Thank you.” Just keep talking. “The film was…”

He continues to hold me until I’m looking him in the eyes; I rarely do this with anyone because lengthy eye contact is too much for me. Others value it highly, but I can’t—or don’t want to—imagine what they’re seeing (or what I’m revealing) when they stare so intently.

Ben’s forehead is large and perhaps a third of the reason why his face seems long, and his hair is swept back today. His eyebrows are groomed and his eyes crease at the corners when he smiles, like he’s doing now. His nose cuts right through the middle; his lips are thinner than mine, but his bottom is fuller than the one above. He hasn’t shaved for a few days, or maybe he has but not too closely. I follow the lines of hair and imagine him stood between my legs whilst I’m sat on the counter, trimmer in hand, shaving his beard. We’re laughing because I’m doing a terrible job.

I now have my hands on Ben’s face, and he’s kissing my fingers and then my palm, my neck, cheek, and lips. It feels nice and manageable.

He lifts me so that I straddle him. I’m nervous, but it must be those first-time nerves that never go away, no matter how old you are, no matter how much you know you should have done this by now. But why are the nerves only growing; why has my stomach skipped the calm and gone straight for the storm? I’m not sure if I …



* * *



We’re upstairs now, so focus on that.

Ben does feel nice, the kisses and his urgency.

His bed is really soft, so focus on that.

I feel cold when my clothes leave my skin and transparent when my underwear is off. It’s all happening so fast. I cross my legs—no, just relax—and Ben pulls them gently apart.

His hands are warm, so focus on that.

He’s heavier than I imagined. He knocks the air out of me.

I think we should stop, but I can’t say it and then he enters me and I bite my tongue. He gasps as I begin to shake.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, no, oh God, ouch, ouch. Too much. I want this to be over. I want this to be over.

It’s not the pleasure I’ve heard through thin walls or read about in books; it’s not even “not bad,” it’s a sharp pain that clamps my jaw shut, but in pain there is always a point of relief, and I wait for it, the point where I’m broken in or apart, but tears steep my eyes and my jaw aches. I tense when he stills and comes and leaves me.

I can breathe now, so focus on that.

Ben pants beside me, his cheeks red and his eyes closed.

I curl my toes and dig my nails into my palms. I stare at the ceiling, thinking of how I can dry my eyes without drawing attention. Can I lie and attribute the tears to great sex? Do people ever cry from pleasure? I decide on running to the toilet to pee when Ben takes my hand. He doesn’t say anything.

I lay there until he’s asleep. I should use the toilet anyway—I read that somewhere years ago.

I don’t switch on the light in case it’s anything like ours and makes a humming sound—I can’t remember if it did when I first used it. My chest aches and I whimper then choke but cover my mouth with my hand. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I almost slip on the toilet lid when I find Ben dribbling down my thigh.

“He didn’t use a condom,” I whisper.

I wipe my eyes. Do I feel like a grown-up, now? Do I feel like a woman of the world with a story I can share with other women; a tale that will serve as a bonding experience? I immediately know I don’t want to tell anyone about this, which doesn’t make any sense. What is the point of losing your virginity if not to fit in? It’s meant to go, like how puberty is meant to pass, like how you’re supposed to age. It has to happen, doesn’t it?

I poke at my body, waiting for something to feel different. I thought I would feel more evolved, more in control, my body a lone thinker, but instead I feel small and uneven, like I could tilt over at any point. This was the last piece of my body puzzle. My boobs have stopped growing and I will be this height for the foreseeable. I am both under-and overwhelmed.