We are sitting in my aqua Oldsmobile Achieva. We are parked in front of his house. I wonder who is inside the house. His dad isn’t home very often. His sister may be inside though. He doesn’t seem to care.
He is leaning over the middle of the car. His hand is behind my head, in my hair, and his lips are on mine. I really like kissing.
N has been my boyfriend for several months. Several of my friends are flabbergasted by the amount of things I haven’t done. I don’t really know what else could be happening. The idea of his finger in my body sounds gross. The idea of touching him, touching “it”, sounds gross. Kissing is fun. He is good at it. I think I am good at it, too.
Other girls have done other things. They use their mouths. They touch themselves. They touch their boyfriends, or boys they’d like to make their boyfriends. I don’t find that appealing. Why would you want to share your private parts with other people? They are private for a reason. I should probably be focusing on the making out that is happening in my car. I can’t help but wonder about the things I can’t fathom.
His hand has left my hair and has found my knee. He is slowly moving his hand up from my knee towards my lady parts. What is he doing? I keep kissing him.
His hand grazes over my pants, over my panties. What the hell? There is a feeling buzzing from deep down, up my abdomen. I push his hand away.
“Just let me,” he says.
“Why?” I reply.
“Let me show you.”
I am really unsure what he could possibly be showing me. I liked it when he touched me. I am not sure that I should.
His hand again finds its way between my thighs, outside of my clothes. He rubs a bit. It feels good. It feels strange.
I hear myself breathing deeply. He is kissing me, and touching me. I am kissing him, and grasping the driver’s chair.
The buzzing is building. It is getting stronger. I am confused. What is this? It feels like spilling over, and the feeling courses through my body. My body is twitching, and he has a look of smug pleasure on his face. He is proud of what he has done.
What has he done? I feel strange. Vulnerable. Confused.
“What just happened?” I ask him sheepishly.
“That was an orgasm,” he replies.
“How did that happen?”
“It happened because I rubbed your clit.”
“My what?”
“You should go home and try that on yourself.”
“Do you do that to yourself?”
“Yes. Well, it’s not the same. But, yes, I masturbate.”
“I didn’t know this existed. I am not sure I want you to do that again.”
He kisses me. “I won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”
I believe him. I guess.
He gets out of the car, tells me he’ll call me soon, and closes the door.
I drive the half-a-minute drive back home. I fear the look my parents will give me. They will know what happened. Why didn’t they tell me that happens? I pull into the driveway, try to look less embarrassed, and get out of the car. I walk around back, and let myself in. Mom is in the kitchen. She tells me to take a shower and go to bed. Does she know?
I stand in front of the mirror. I look at myself. I wonder what all I don’t know about myself, my body. What does God think about what I have done? I will never let that happen again.
Our Daughters' Stories 