tilting. (I would later be so ill that to this day I can’t even say the words Fuzzy Navel without feeling a rise of bile in my throat.)
“Where are we going?” I asked. But I didn’t even know if she heard me.
She didn’t say anything, just led me up the staircase to the darkened hall. The second level was for lovers—on the chaise, on the floor, on the bed in a room where the door stood open. It was a little quieter here, but my heart started thundering.
Virginity was just one of my secret shames. I’d never been touched in that way by another person. I’d never even been kissed. All around us couples were groping and thrusting in the dim smoky air, awakening a host of unpleasant, uncomfortable feelings in me. I started pulling her back toward the stairs.
“Beck,” I said, feeling the first wave of nausea hit. “I want to go. I have to go.”
But she kept tugging at me, until we were in a room by ourselves. She pushed me against a wall, and a framed picture tumbled from the cheap particleboard dresser beside us. She touched my hair, my face, moved in and sucked lightly on my earlobe. Mywhole body froze as I started to tremble with desire, terror, and shame.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay to feel good.”
And she did feel good. Her lips were hot and soft as she pressed her mouth to mine, tasting of whiskey and cigarettes. I stood rigid, unmoving, even as she put her hand inside my shirt. She ran her hand over my belly, and up to my chest. Here, she paused and looked at me, a deep, knowing, penetrating gaze. I almost reached for her, pulled her to me. I wanted to. I wanted her. Bad.
But then I was on my knees puking up more fluid than I knew my body could hold. And it never ended. We spent the next hour in the bathroom, where I heaved and heaved into the toilet, while she sat beside me, rubbing my back until we both passed out.
We woke up the next morning, her hanging over the rim of the tub, me with my face pressed against the cool tile floor. We opened our eyes at the same moment, and if we hadn’t been so poisoned by alcohol, so sick, so muddled by drink and fatigue and what had passed between us, we might have laughed. We were ridiculous. When I looked in the mirror, the right side of my face held the small, square impressions of the tile floor.
We stumbled home in the cold, milky-gray light of morning and slept for the rest of the day. We never, ever spoke of that night again. She’d gone on to suck and fuck girls and boys all over campus, while I remained as chaste as a nun. But there was an undeniable tension, a wondering, a building resentment. It was a current that had threaded its way through our friendship; it was part of who we were together.
After that night, there was suddenly constant fighting in my relationship with Beck. Spats could spring up over anything—maybe she took one of the million black button-down shirts I had. (Thatwas my uniform—jeans, a button shirt, a pair of chunky shoes, some kind of black coat in winter.) Or she’d steal my class notes and then get mad at me if she didn’t do well on a quiz. She’d say my music was keeping her up. It could be anything that got us going at it. But it wasn’t any of those things.
“Why don’t you two just fuck and get it over with,” our other suite mate, Ainsley, complained the last time we argued over who had done the dishes last.
We both stopped mid-bitch and looked at her, then at each other. Then we each marched off for our separate rooms. Our doors slammed in unison. I pressed myself against the wall, my heart doing the dance of shame I knew so well. I could smell the whiskey and cigarette smoke on her breath the night she kissed me.
My anger at her in the library had me thinking about all of these things. Suddenly I couldn’t stand to be near her another second. I hated that smug look she had on her face, as though she had discovered things about me, as though she knew me. Which she didn’t. Not at
“Where are we going?” I asked. But I didn’t even know if she heard me.
She didn’t say anything, just led me up the staircase to the darkened hall. The second level was for lovers—on the chaise, on the floor, on the bed in a room where the door stood open. It was a little quieter here, but my heart started thundering.
Virginity was just one of my secret shames. I’d never been touched in that way by another person. I’d never even been kissed. All around us couples were groping and thrusting in the dim smoky air, awakening a host of unpleasant, uncomfortable feelings in me. I started pulling her back toward the stairs.
“Beck,” I said, feeling the first wave of nausea hit. “I want to go. I have to go.”
But she kept tugging at me, until we were in a room by ourselves. She pushed me against a wall, and a framed picture tumbled from the cheap particleboard dresser beside us. She touched my hair, my face, moved in and sucked lightly on my earlobe. Mywhole body froze as I started to tremble with desire, terror, and shame.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay to feel good.”
And she did feel good. Her lips were hot and soft as she pressed her mouth to mine, tasting of whiskey and cigarettes. I stood rigid, unmoving, even as she put her hand inside my shirt. She ran her hand over my belly, and up to my chest. Here, she paused and looked at me, a deep, knowing, penetrating gaze. I almost reached for her, pulled her to me. I wanted to. I wanted her. Bad.
But then I was on my knees puking up more fluid than I knew my body could hold. And it never ended. We spent the next hour in the bathroom, where I heaved and heaved into the toilet, while she sat beside me, rubbing my back until we both passed out.
We woke up the next morning, her hanging over the rim of the tub, me with my face pressed against the cool tile floor. We opened our eyes at the same moment, and if we hadn’t been so poisoned by alcohol, so sick, so muddled by drink and fatigue and what had passed between us, we might have laughed. We were ridiculous. When I looked in the mirror, the right side of my face held the small, square impressions of the tile floor.
We stumbled home in the cold, milky-gray light of morning and slept for the rest of the day. We never, ever spoke of that night again. She’d gone on to suck and fuck girls and boys all over campus, while I remained as chaste as a nun. But there was an undeniable tension, a wondering, a building resentment. It was a current that had threaded its way through our friendship; it was part of who we were together.
After that night, there was suddenly constant fighting in my relationship with Beck. Spats could spring up over anything—maybe she took one of the million black button-down shirts I had. (Thatwas my uniform—jeans, a button shirt, a pair of chunky shoes, some kind of black coat in winter.) Or she’d steal my class notes and then get mad at me if she didn’t do well on a quiz. She’d say my music was keeping her up. It could be anything that got us going at it. But it wasn’t any of those things.
“Why don’t you two just fuck and get it over with,” our other suite mate, Ainsley, complained the last time we argued over who had done the dishes last.
We both stopped mid-bitch and looked at her, then at each other. Then we each marched off for our separate rooms. Our doors slammed in unison. I pressed myself against the wall, my heart doing the dance of shame I knew so well. I could smell the whiskey and cigarette smoke on her breath the night she kissed me.
My anger at her in the library had me thinking about all of these things. Suddenly I couldn’t stand to be near her another second. I hated that smug look she had on her face, as though she had discovered things about me, as though she knew me. Which she didn’t. Not at
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