I could see something that shouldn’t have been there, shrouded by the mist of the nets that were slick with condensation from the inside of the window. Once I’d peeled the greying lace curtains back from the damp glass, I could see it more clearly: a long, thick, cream-coloured enveloped taped to the other side of the window, my name written on the front.
It was cold still – spring had yet to set in – but I danced outside in my bare feet to retrieve it anyway, diving back under the covers for warmth when I came back in. This was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me, and my first instinct was to tear it open, but I didn’t. I sat very still and looked at it for a long time. For the first time in my life, I got that feeling – the one when you know something momentous, something life changing, is going to happen. I wasn’t wrong.
You can see how he didn’t bother with my name. No ‘Dear Claire’. ‘I enjoyed our conversation on Saturday night,’ was his opening line. Our conversation. I thrilled at his turn of phrase. He’d sought me out at a party; I remember the moment exactly. I’d noticed him as soon as we’d walked in. He was taller thanmost of the other boys, and he had this self-assurance, like he was at ease in his long, skinny body. There was nothing about him that a girl would instantly be attracted to – nothing except that he had that rare quality among young men: he looked like he knew what he was doing. We’d been there a couple of hours when I noticed him looking at me, and I remember glancing behind me, in case I was mistaken. When I checked again, he was still watching me. He smiled and held up a bottle of wine, summoning me to his side with a jerk of his head. Of course, I went. I didn’t think twice about it. He poured me red wine in a real wine glass, and questioned me extensively about my taste in art, literature and music. I lied about everything I could in the hope that it would impress him. He knew I was lying. I think he liked that about me. Everyone, including all of my friends, had left by the time the party finally wound down. I told him I’d better get back, and should call a mini cab home, to be on the safe side. I wasn’t even sure where the party was: we’d arrived in a miasma of cheap wine and a cadged lift, laughing and talking too much for any of us to take note of where we were going, only there on the say-so of a friend of a friend. It was then he revealed that this was
his
house, and asked me to stay the night. Not for sex or anything – he was very clear about that – just because it would be safer than taking a cab home alone. Hadn’t I heard about that girl who’d gotten into a local cab last week, then passed out and had woken up in the middle of nowhere with the driver masturbating over her?
Of course, for all I knew, I was exchanging one danger foranother, but I didn’t think about it that way. I thought he was chivalrous, protective, mature. In retrospect, I think he was trying reverse psychology on me, convinced that if he denied me access to his manhood, I’d be clawing off his boxers in desperation before dawn broke. Only I wasn’t that kind of girl. There had been a boy, one boy only, whom I’d had sex with before then. I hadn’t told him I was a virgin. It didn’t seem a very cool thing to confess, because I was eighteen, which seemed so old. It had been a one-time thing, awkward and embarrassing. I’d decided to pretend it hadn’t happened at all, except now at least I’d got ‘it’ out of the way, and knew what to expect the next time, which wasn’t very much.
For all the brash confidence I put on display, I was very inexperienced. I let him lead me upstairs to his room. He had a single bed. I lay down on it, and after a few minutes standing awkwardly in front of the electric bar heater, he lay down beside me, pressing my body against the length of the cold wall. We talked for a long time, lying side by side, fully
It was cold still – spring had yet to set in – but I danced outside in my bare feet to retrieve it anyway, diving back under the covers for warmth when I came back in. This was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me, and my first instinct was to tear it open, but I didn’t. I sat very still and looked at it for a long time. For the first time in my life, I got that feeling – the one when you know something momentous, something life changing, is going to happen. I wasn’t wrong.
You can see how he didn’t bother with my name. No ‘Dear Claire’. ‘I enjoyed our conversation on Saturday night,’ was his opening line. Our conversation. I thrilled at his turn of phrase. He’d sought me out at a party; I remember the moment exactly. I’d noticed him as soon as we’d walked in. He was taller thanmost of the other boys, and he had this self-assurance, like he was at ease in his long, skinny body. There was nothing about him that a girl would instantly be attracted to – nothing except that he had that rare quality among young men: he looked like he knew what he was doing. We’d been there a couple of hours when I noticed him looking at me, and I remember glancing behind me, in case I was mistaken. When I checked again, he was still watching me. He smiled and held up a bottle of wine, summoning me to his side with a jerk of his head. Of course, I went. I didn’t think twice about it. He poured me red wine in a real wine glass, and questioned me extensively about my taste in art, literature and music. I lied about everything I could in the hope that it would impress him. He knew I was lying. I think he liked that about me. Everyone, including all of my friends, had left by the time the party finally wound down. I told him I’d better get back, and should call a mini cab home, to be on the safe side. I wasn’t even sure where the party was: we’d arrived in a miasma of cheap wine and a cadged lift, laughing and talking too much for any of us to take note of where we were going, only there on the say-so of a friend of a friend. It was then he revealed that this was
his
house, and asked me to stay the night. Not for sex or anything – he was very clear about that – just because it would be safer than taking a cab home alone. Hadn’t I heard about that girl who’d gotten into a local cab last week, then passed out and had woken up in the middle of nowhere with the driver masturbating over her?
Of course, for all I knew, I was exchanging one danger foranother, but I didn’t think about it that way. I thought he was chivalrous, protective, mature. In retrospect, I think he was trying reverse psychology on me, convinced that if he denied me access to his manhood, I’d be clawing off his boxers in desperation before dawn broke. Only I wasn’t that kind of girl. There had been a boy, one boy only, whom I’d had sex with before then. I hadn’t told him I was a virgin. It didn’t seem a very cool thing to confess, because I was eighteen, which seemed so old. It had been a one-time thing, awkward and embarrassing. I’d decided to pretend it hadn’t happened at all, except now at least I’d got ‘it’ out of the way, and knew what to expect the next time, which wasn’t very much.
For all the brash confidence I put on display, I was very inexperienced. I let him lead me upstairs to his room. He had a single bed. I lay down on it, and after a few minutes standing awkwardly in front of the electric bar heater, he lay down beside me, pressing my body against the length of the cold wall. We talked for a long time, lying side by side, fully
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