They Wish They Were Us(42)
His hands are strong and thick, calmer than they should be. He wasn’t always like this, not when we first started hooking up. We’d both done stuff with a few other people, other Players in other classes. But neither of us had been with someone before. There had never been an opportunity to learn or ask questions in a way that felt safe or free of judgment. So when we were together, every session was a new adventure, a new line to throw ourselves across.
One night, after fumbling to unlatch my bra under the stars aboard his boat, Olly Golucky, Henry announced he wanted to get better at this, at all of it. “I want to make you feel good,” he whispered in a voice that turned my guts into soup. “Show me,” he said, breathing hot air onto my neck.
So I did, guiding his hand to where only I touched when I was alone. I showed him how I moved my own fingers and how he could mimic the motion. I was timid at first, embarrassed that he would know I had done these things by myself, that I had found pleasure when it seemed so unattainable. But Henry listened and tried with his gentle, tender attempts. His brow furrowed in determined concentration until I gave him affirmation and then consent to go further, to keep exploring. He began to study me and my body like a textbook, harder than he had for any other test. By the end of the summer, he was earning A’s—and not just for effort. He said my reactions were what excited him most. It all made me quiver, too, his relentless pursuit of my enjoyment.
Now, in his bedroom, he knows exactly what to do. Soon, his hands are on my face and then my neck, rubbing the soft part of my back nearly hidden beneath my shirt. His lips wander from my mouth to my ear and then to my collarbone, tracing an invisible constellation down to my neckline, and then lower.
I sink into the bed, wrapping my legs around his waist. It’s easy to let him take charge, to say yes, right there and over a little. Henry wants to please. He’s eager to see ecstasy on my face, to dazzle me. In moments like this I’m so grateful that my first, my real first, was with someone who treats my body like something to be amazed by, to traverse—but only with a guide. He knows it’s not his to conquer.
His pants are off and his boxers are thin. I can feel every ridge of him as he lifts up my skirt and feels around with the soft pads of his fingertips. He knows where to press now, how hard to touch. I lean into him and let my hands roam, too, over his curved muscles and the tender skin above his waist. His hair is soft and he nuzzles my neck like a puppy.
But soon, I know this will be one of those times where I can’t stop my brain from going into overdrive. I try to push every thought out of my head, to meditate on the lovestruck boy in front of me. Instead, I start to wonder how well I scrubbed down there when I showered this afternoon, and if I smell like mildew, if I’m still tight. That stupid, meaningless word. Boys obsess over it. Was she tight? How tight? Bet she’s loose. The only thing worse than being loose is being gross.
Henry senses my hesitation and slows, moving his hands higher.
“You okay?” he asks. He pulls his head from my neck and looks at me with concern.
“Yes,” I say. “Let’s keep going.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Yes.” I bring my mouth to his and push my body closer so we are suctioned together. I want him to make everything disappear. “Do you have a condom?” I ask, knowing the answer.
Henry reaches over to the nightstand and pulls a foil wrapper from his drawer. He rips it open and the sound pierces my ears. I lean back into his pillows and watch his movements. He looks down at me with that sweet smile, his hair slightly askew. My heart swells and I want to mold into him at once. I’m lucky to be with him. This I know for sure.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, totally certain.
“You’re so beautiful.” His words are muffled into my hair and I squeeze my eyes shut.
“So are you.” I bury my face into his chest and picture someone with darker hair, with a smile that’s tilted at just a slightly different angle. But he appears in fragments, a series of starts and stops. He’s gone then and another image pops into my head. The photo of Shaila and Graham, wrapped around each other tightly in their Gold Coast uniforms. The picture that I tore.
Henry’s sweat drips onto me in wet plunks, and suddenly I’m over it. But Henry pumps overhead, mumbling sounds of excitement. He won’t let himself stop until he knows I’m good, I’m done, and so I moan and push into him. I do the things that have become our signals of completion. It’s easier than having to explain the madness in my brain, or why it’s there at all.
It only takes a moment or two before he releases, letting out a slow, long shuddering breath. Henry collapses next to me. “Jill,” he whispers into my ear. I roll out from under him and our skin separates with a sweet, crackling sound. I’m grateful that my chest is covered and I pull his silky sheets up to my hip bones. He wraps an arm around my waist. “That was amazing.”
Back in eighth grade, Shaila and I looked up how to say orgasm in a bunch of different languages just for fun. Turns out the French call it la petite morte. The little death. We erupted into a fit of giggles when we found out.
“Oh my God,” Shaila said. “You know what that means, right?”
“What?” I asked, holding my aching stomach, sore from so much laughing.
“Every time a guy comes, a part of him dies. How twisted is that?”