day after tomorrow, back to London.â
Because of course, during this entire exchange, I was faking an English accent.
Besides my lie âIâm nineteen,â the accent was something else I did constantly when I was on my own in the city, or when Daphne and I met new people. We watched a lot of Monty Python; I can still recite huge chunks of Holy Grail and Life of Brian . John Cleese was my dialect coach for snowing guys and sounding as cool as possible.
And though I only suspected it at the time, there is nothing quite so hot as a girl whoâs going to be leaving soon, and going far, far away.
We made out. We lay down and he got on top of me. My heart sank when his hands went up my shirt. I was wearing a padded bra with basically bee-sting boobs underneath. At this point, though my body was long (I was as tall as he was), in his fumbling hands I probably felt like a squashy ribbed ironing board . . . an ironing board with a hole in it. He looked for that next.
âYes,â I tried to say, but the weight of him on top of me was a thing I hadnât yet encountered. I had made out before, but only sitting up, or leaning against something. In this position, everything I would try to say sounded strained. So I was quiet.
My tightest and sluttiest corduroys were probably not the best choice for this adventure, but they got pulled down past my bum eventually, and far enough to get my legs open, just enough.
I steeled myself.
Hare Kriiishnaaa! Hare Kriiishnaaa! Thrumming in the background.
My bare butt in the cool wet grass.
Hare raammaaaHare raaammaaaarammaraaammaaa. . . .
Desperate breathing in my ear, and Storm, the virgin, was gone.
It didnât hurt.
I did get to say yes, and oh yeah a couple of times (in my fake accent) when he would do a push-up over me and I could breathe. I bit his chin at one point, he seemed to like that, so I decided later it would become my signature move.
The moments leading up to his finish line, I felt this weird burst of feverish heat push out of him and onto me. He made a sharp, surprised sound, shook, then collapsed. His breathing became long and happy-sounding, like heâd just run to catch up with someone he loved and truly missed. It felt amazing to me to be buried under a big hot body that felt so grateful.
It took me awhile, after getting cocked and loaded, to figure out how to get more of that transient, love-you-for-a-split-second action. I was determined to become good in bed. I hadnât the foggiest idea what that even meant, but knew the power was in that. And like anything else, I knew with practice, I could become a pro, a passionista, and, intime, a dick whisperer. I would be in demand, like the cool kid who gets chosen first for dodgeball.
On television, girls always got mad at boys for kissing and telling. Me, I wanted a full-on word-of-mouth campaign. I wanted guys to call each other and marvel at my skills. âDude. Isnât she fucking amazing? Did she bite your chin?â
I lived for that moment when the guy was about to get off. Simultaneously melting and exploding, he became simple. The world would disappear, but I wouldnât. And whoever he was, for a brief bit of time, he was so glad I was there.
Those sweet, pounding seconds, to me, were like little drops of love. The only love I understood. I know it wasnât really love per se, it was more carnal gratitude than anything, but it was all I had, so it was enough.
Just like with Mr. Pool Jet and ChapStick, I knew not to tell anyone in the beginning. I told anybody and everybody I was a virgin, unless, of course, they were about to fuck me. I kept everything hidden, especially from Mom. It wasnât hard, since she was home less and less. And I didnât even want to acknowledge her existence, let alone talk to her about anything. But when she got released one day, without anybody knowing, she sneaked home while everyone was out, and found condoms and pot in my
Because of course, during this entire exchange, I was faking an English accent.
Besides my lie âIâm nineteen,â the accent was something else I did constantly when I was on my own in the city, or when Daphne and I met new people. We watched a lot of Monty Python; I can still recite huge chunks of Holy Grail and Life of Brian . John Cleese was my dialect coach for snowing guys and sounding as cool as possible.
And though I only suspected it at the time, there is nothing quite so hot as a girl whoâs going to be leaving soon, and going far, far away.
We made out. We lay down and he got on top of me. My heart sank when his hands went up my shirt. I was wearing a padded bra with basically bee-sting boobs underneath. At this point, though my body was long (I was as tall as he was), in his fumbling hands I probably felt like a squashy ribbed ironing board . . . an ironing board with a hole in it. He looked for that next.
âYes,â I tried to say, but the weight of him on top of me was a thing I hadnât yet encountered. I had made out before, but only sitting up, or leaning against something. In this position, everything I would try to say sounded strained. So I was quiet.
My tightest and sluttiest corduroys were probably not the best choice for this adventure, but they got pulled down past my bum eventually, and far enough to get my legs open, just enough.
I steeled myself.
Hare Kriiishnaaa! Hare Kriiishnaaa! Thrumming in the background.
My bare butt in the cool wet grass.
Hare raammaaaHare raaammaaaarammaraaammaaa. . . .
Desperate breathing in my ear, and Storm, the virgin, was gone.
It didnât hurt.
I did get to say yes, and oh yeah a couple of times (in my fake accent) when he would do a push-up over me and I could breathe. I bit his chin at one point, he seemed to like that, so I decided later it would become my signature move.
The moments leading up to his finish line, I felt this weird burst of feverish heat push out of him and onto me. He made a sharp, surprised sound, shook, then collapsed. His breathing became long and happy-sounding, like heâd just run to catch up with someone he loved and truly missed. It felt amazing to me to be buried under a big hot body that felt so grateful.
It took me awhile, after getting cocked and loaded, to figure out how to get more of that transient, love-you-for-a-split-second action. I was determined to become good in bed. I hadnât the foggiest idea what that even meant, but knew the power was in that. And like anything else, I knew with practice, I could become a pro, a passionista, and, intime, a dick whisperer. I would be in demand, like the cool kid who gets chosen first for dodgeball.
On television, girls always got mad at boys for kissing and telling. Me, I wanted a full-on word-of-mouth campaign. I wanted guys to call each other and marvel at my skills. âDude. Isnât she fucking amazing? Did she bite your chin?â
I lived for that moment when the guy was about to get off. Simultaneously melting and exploding, he became simple. The world would disappear, but I wouldnât. And whoever he was, for a brief bit of time, he was so glad I was there.
Those sweet, pounding seconds, to me, were like little drops of love. The only love I understood. I know it wasnât really love per se, it was more carnal gratitude than anything, but it was all I had, so it was enough.
Just like with Mr. Pool Jet and ChapStick, I knew not to tell anyone in the beginning. I told anybody and everybody I was a virgin, unless, of course, they were about to fuck me. I kept everything hidden, especially from Mom. It wasnât hard, since she was home less and less. And I didnât even want to acknowledge her existence, let alone talk to her about anything. But when she got released one day, without anybody knowing, she sneaked home while everyone was out, and found condoms and pot in my
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