(no subject)
When I finally have sex with a boy,
I hope it's a boy who watches Monty Python films and has clean sheets and trimmed fingernails and doesn't kiss like his tongue is attempting to stage a breakout from his mouth.
Thinking of these things reminds me of last November, when I finally "dated" somebody I liked, not just somebody Tassie and Patrick are always recommending. It hurts to think of.
I finally got the balls to corner him after school, against the brick wall of the theatre, because he lived on stage, he needed the stage to live. His face was a magnet and mine was drawing closer and suddenly my hand was reaching into my pocket. He was saying something, something stupid, I was saying something stupid too, because it was better than standing there awkwardly grinning like fools. Then I was taking out a sharpie and I was reaching for his hand and tracing a heart on the back of it, my heart hammering and hammering, and he was taking my hand with the Sharpie and putting his fingers through it so slowly, lifting it to his lips and kissing each finger, his eyes staring at mine.
But middle school is a cesspool of relationships, not one is meant to last, not one.
He left me exactly the same way, too, later, using his usual dramatics as a mask for his goodbye. Taking my fingers and kissing them one by one, in a disgusting parody of his former self, saying, "Aimee, I'm sorry", "Aimee, I should have said...", "Aimee, don't hate me...you couldn't hate me..."
And then he walked away, all silouhetted against the bright sun and I just fought to breathe, just clutching my chest. Just breathing. Just breathing.
I'm protected now.
I'm steel.
I hope it's a boy who watches Monty Python films and has clean sheets and trimmed fingernails and doesn't kiss like his tongue is attempting to stage a breakout from his mouth.
Thinking of these things reminds me of last November, when I finally "dated" somebody I liked, not just somebody Tassie and Patrick are always recommending. It hurts to think of.
I finally got the balls to corner him after school, against the brick wall of the theatre, because he lived on stage, he needed the stage to live. His face was a magnet and mine was drawing closer and suddenly my hand was reaching into my pocket. He was saying something, something stupid, I was saying something stupid too, because it was better than standing there awkwardly grinning like fools. Then I was taking out a sharpie and I was reaching for his hand and tracing a heart on the back of it, my heart hammering and hammering, and he was taking my hand with the Sharpie and putting his fingers through it so slowly, lifting it to his lips and kissing each finger, his eyes staring at mine.
But middle school is a cesspool of relationships, not one is meant to last, not one.
He left me exactly the same way, too, later, using his usual dramatics as a mask for his goodbye. Taking my fingers and kissing them one by one, in a disgusting parody of his former self, saying, "Aimee, I'm sorry", "Aimee, I should have said...", "Aimee, don't hate me...you couldn't hate me..."
And then he walked away, all silouhetted against the bright sun and I just fought to breathe, just clutching my chest. Just breathing. Just breathing.
I'm protected now.
I'm steel.