8th Grade Trip to NYC
This is the first time I am being fingered, first time I am being penetrated at all, and I am on a bus, in a bathroom, in New York City. I am 13. I have not even thought to look at myself downthere, do not even really understand how it works, despite having gotten my period when I was 10, despite health class diagrams, despite masturbating against stuffed animals when I am alone in my bedroom. And right now, Jason Sollenberger (Sollenbooger, Sollensnot), the cutest boy in school since Rob died 2 years 3 months and 4 days ago, has his hand in my pants, his mouth on my nipple, and his finger pushing past my softest defenses.
I do not know what it means that this is happening to me, and maybe Jason doesn't know either. What I do know is why I am in the bathroom with this cute boy instead of Beth, one of the pretty girls, one of the normal girls, one of the girls who lives in a house with her parents and goes to gymnastics classes. Instead of Holly, with whom I know Jason would prefer to be in the bathroom because he asked her to be his girlfriend the day after he gave me my first French kiss in December of the prior year. Holly, who also does not have a dad, but who has enormous breasts for a girl of any age, but especially our age, and who also has straight teeth and new clothes. I am in this bathroom with the cute boy because I will let him touch me.
I am not really thinking about what it feels like; it does not register as pain or pleasure, I neither bleed nor cum. What I do is watch in the mirror. The bathroom is small of course. My back is against one wall, blue and white tile, and Jason stands on my right side. I am wearing my light white jacket, pastel plaid squares on the elbows and shoulders like patches and lining the pockets and ends of the sleeves. My t-shirt is pulled up, my small white bra pushed up, my light blue cut off denim shorts are undone and askew but on. My hair, always long and straight, is trapped between my body and the wall. Directly across from us, the sink, metal and plain; to its right, the toilet. Jason's face is turned against my body. His hair, the color of rust, all brown and red mix that used to a brighter orange, a more attractive color, is all I can see. I am aware the other boys are taking turns at the keyhole, aware that we are putting on a show, aware that they might not believe it if they were not seeing it. I wonder how it looks to them, not reflected in the mirror. I wonder if I looked scared, or if I look like a girl in one of the magazines they have stolen from their fathers.
I do not know what it means that this is happening to me, and maybe Jason doesn't know either. What I do know is why I am in the bathroom with this cute boy instead of Beth, one of the pretty girls, one of the normal girls, one of the girls who lives in a house with her parents and goes to gymnastics classes. Instead of Holly, with whom I know Jason would prefer to be in the bathroom because he asked her to be his girlfriend the day after he gave me my first French kiss in December of the prior year. Holly, who also does not have a dad, but who has enormous breasts for a girl of any age, but especially our age, and who also has straight teeth and new clothes. I am in this bathroom with the cute boy because I will let him touch me.
I am not really thinking about what it feels like; it does not register as pain or pleasure, I neither bleed nor cum. What I do is watch in the mirror. The bathroom is small of course. My back is against one wall, blue and white tile, and Jason stands on my right side. I am wearing my light white jacket, pastel plaid squares on the elbows and shoulders like patches and lining the pockets and ends of the sleeves. My t-shirt is pulled up, my small white bra pushed up, my light blue cut off denim shorts are undone and askew but on. My hair, always long and straight, is trapped between my body and the wall. Directly across from us, the sink, metal and plain; to its right, the toilet. Jason's face is turned against my body. His hair, the color of rust, all brown and red mix that used to a brighter orange, a more attractive color, is all I can see. I am aware the other boys are taking turns at the keyhole, aware that we are putting on a show, aware that they might not believe it if they were not seeing it. I wonder how it looks to them, not reflected in the mirror. I wonder if I looked scared, or if I look like a girl in one of the magazines they have stolen from their fathers.