We used to swap stories, swaggering on the spot as we boasted about the smooth, tanned legs we’d spread the night before. Tits like melons filled our minds as we gestured – this big; this round. Last night, we told each other, her long, smooth legs were wrapped around our waists. I closed my eyes and imagined how she would have felt, the way she would have tasted, if I had taken their place with her.
I used to think that I was the only one who lied.
How could something yielding and feminine be so frightening? Woman was an undiscovered place, both alien and familiar. Something which I seen but had not yet been allowed to touch – or perhaps to taste. That fear – it was a different kind of fear from the one which drove me into fights and – ultimately – out of school. I grew my hair long to hide the way I blushed and tucked my hands in my pockets where the fingers could coil together nervously.
The first time was nothing like our stories. She was a pale, pasty girl with nervous eyes and doughy skin. There was no flirting, no perfectly delivered chat-up line. I blushed at her from across the room and she darted at me like a moth towards a beacon.
When she invited me to go upstairs, I followed. The only desire I felt was to get it over with, to lose the thing which set me aside from the others. She was a means to an end and I used her to get me there. She was a tunnel to the light at the other side.
She was drunk, I think. Her hands were clumsy as she opened my jeans. When she climbed on top and started to move, her breasts flapped against her ribcage, a mole poking out from underneath the left one sprouting a curious hair.
The weight of her crushed my ribcage and I arched backwards more from instinct than anything else, thrusting my hips up against her. She gasped, leaned forwards, crushing her tit-flaps against my face and guiding one nipple to my mouth. The stubble on her legs grated over my thighs and I closed my eyes and thought of the women from our stories. She was barely on me before I finished. She left in a hurry after that, carrying her shoes in one hand and her dignity in the other. I lay there for a while longer, pressed down into the sweat-sticky mattress by the weight of discovery.
In my stories, though, she was a goddess. I licked her hard, red nipples (tits this big) and pleasured her all night and into the morning. They jeered as I described the faces she made (once, twice, three times…), clapped me on the back and passed round the bottle.
In my mind, though, I had no illusions. I could see her fixed smile and the desperate longing in her eyes to find something that I couldn’t give her. I don’t remember her name now. I not even sure I ever knew it.
Rebecca L. Brown is a British writer. She specialises in horror, SF, humour, surreal and experimental fiction, although her writing often wanders off into other genres and gets horribly lost.
© 2012 Rebecca L. Brown