little girl from cherry lane (appalled) wrote in poetrusis,
little girl from cherry lane

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a first effort.

Hello -
I'm a newer member here and wrote the following bit cold after listening to "sex ruins everything" by kind of like spitting.
A bit nervous about this first introduction, but I am ready for all the constructive criticism you have to give!
A million thanks.

Harry walked into my front hall as if he were looking for something; the predetermined look on his face was as though he had forgotten his wallet on my bathroom counter and was coming over to retrieve it. I stood there, as he brushed past me, in my t-shirt and slouchy jeans and white socks. I pushed hair out of my eyes. I bit my lip. I tugged on my shirt.

We sat on the couch, arms' length apart, flipping through channels as if he really had come over to watch television. I could feel electricity radiating from the screen, from the lamp next to the coffee table, from his eyes and hair and fingertips. He had an angular face with steady eyes that always peered out deliberately from underneath a fringe of dark and shaggy hair. His lips were thin and thoughtful, drawing a starting line between his nose and chin. And when my parents went to see a movie, and my brother was at band practice, I had called him on the telephone. His coarse hands had answered the phone and the timbre of his voice has met me over the line.

It was in the middle of the Fugitive that he leaned over towards me and I could feel his left hand on my left knee. His lips had parted, his breath was warm and loud and foreign. He smelled faintly like peanut butter. And I wondered if he could tell I had eaten a banana before he came over and whether or not tiny particles of the said fruit might still be clinging to my teeth. I guess, for our purposes, it didn't really matter.

And so we found ourselves in my bedroom, my sweet sophomore year bedroom. We undressed roughly, like we were retreating for the night. I heard myself laughing uncomfortably at my self consciousness and embarrassment. My shirt caught on my earring, and I laughed a little. I fumbled with his belt buckle, and we both guffawed. All I wanted to feel was serious and sensual and seduced; I did not understand our forced laughter. I used my small hands to comb his hair from his forehead and found the brownest eyes on the face of the earth; a pair of irises that shouted Yes! This is where we ought to be! This is where you can rest your trust forever!

Imagine my surprise to find that his hands on my skin felt like an intrusion. Like someone entering a room without knocking. Like someone opening your journal and rifling through the ballpoint-pen-indented pages. I touched him and could feel a blemish there, a dry elbow here. I closed my eyes and was surprised to find that I did not feel infinitely overwhelming warmth. I lay there, half covered by my bedsheets and half covered by Harry.
Everything suddenly felt scientific. His phalanges became intertwined with mine; his lips found my clavicle and sternum. My femur raised to an angle; patellas bent. And I thought I would be absorbed with the essence of his scent; the thrill of kisses. I thought I would feel drunk with lust and reckless with abandon. I had expected flesh to melt into flesh.
I noticed that one of my shirts in the closet had fallen off of its hanger. The computer monitor was gathering dust. The static photographed images of my grinning peers were surrounding me on all sides. Harry's right arm underneath me felt like a baseball bat had been layered between my boxspring and mattress.

And so we get used to things. We get used to the coppery tastes in the back of our throats and the papery patches of one another's skin. We learn that extremities always stay cold and sometimes we get thirsty in the middle of foreplay. We learn that lumpy mattresses are acceptable, as is loud breathing and laughing as we remove our clothes.

It is supposed to be so passionate; we settle for scientific.
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