Olivia Christakos and Her Second First Time

by Dani Irons

  “Your role? Because I told you I wanted a break?”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “You want to explain it to me, then?”

  “No.”

  I don’t push him and we both go quiet.

  Several minutes later, he’s still standing awkwardly in the front of the room. I should tell him to come sit down again. I don’t like him so far away.

  “Thanks for bringing me here,” I try, switching gears.

  He looks at me, his expression so filled with emotion it breaks my heart. “How are the ribs?”

  “Better,” I say, holding my gaze on his. I’m feeling so much right now, anxious, frustrated, but mostly needy. I want things between us to be okay. I don’t know in what state—together or not together—but I want it to be okay. “What would you like to do tonight?”

  He blinks a few times. “Get to know each other better.”

  My mind goes into the gutter, reading too much into his words. But then I force myself to think the way he probably means it: since I don’t remember him and I’m so different, we could learn more about each other tonight.

  But now I find myself picturing him naked. “We should do that,” I whisper, like I’ve told him he has nice eyes. Which he does.

  “Should I make some coffee?” he asks, but I pretend that he says, you have nice eyes too.

  “Sure,” in which I mean I want you to come sit next to me. I don’t lose eye contact with him until the second he turns to lean over the coffee pot.

  “Decaf?” I picture him saying, I will sit in your lap if you ask me to.

  “Sure.” Please come sit next to me before I lose control.

  “Sugar? Cream?” he asks as the coffee machine begins to whirr. I want to kiss you.

  “Yes and yes.” I want to kiss you back. “Please.”

  Silence falls around us and in my head. He pours two cups and comes over to sit by me. Thank God. He hands me one and I take it with my good hand and feel his fingers. Meaty and long. His hands are big, I notice for the first time. “Thanks.” I want you to touch me.

  I take a sip and scorch my tongue. “Ow. Hot. I burned myself.”

  He looks at my mouth and my eyes. My mouth then my eyes. It might be my imagination, but I’m pretty sure he moves his head forward a fraction of a fraction. I move mine a fraction of a fraction of that fraction. I hope he does/doesn’t notice.

  I take a silent deep breath.

  He blows on his coffee and takes a sip. Doesn’t stop looking at me. I move my head another fraction. He doesn’t move his.

  “Kiss me, please,” I whisper, finally saying aloud what I’m thinking.

  He licks his lips and squirms where he sits. Stares at his coffee.

  “Don’t,” I say. “Look at me.”

  He does. “You sure you want me to kiss you?” he asks, his voice hesitant and sweet.

  “Very.”

  He leans down and pecks the tip of my upper lip. It’s as soft as a marshmallow. He pulls away.

  “You can do better than that.”

  “I’m scared to.” He looks back down to his coffee.

  “I’m not. Stop being scared. I’m yours. I want to be yours.”

  This gets his attention. He sets down his coffee on the TV stand and wraps his big hands around my jaw. His fingers are under my ears and in my hair. He kisses me.

  He kisses me like it’s the last time. He kisses me like it’s the very first time.

  He brushes my hair aside and kisses my neck, my collarbone, the scar there. The feel of his lips sends a chill up my spine. Our eyes meet and I kiss him back. Coffee splashes onto my lap and it stings through my jeans, but I don’t care. I set the cup down and keep kissing him, this time reaching for him with my good hand, roaming around over his chest, his waist, his back. His muscles slink under my touch and I pull him to me. He warms my front.

  Wyatt moves so slowly it drives me insane. He kisses my neck again—down one side and then the other. He scoots closer and kisses me on the mouth, tastes the inside. He goes even slower, as if to savor my taste, but it’s as if a truck engine is powering an electric toothbrush. I can feel excessive power behind every movement.

  Then suddenly we’re not kissing anymore. Wyatt stands, shakes out his hands, paces, doesn’t look at me. He jumps in place, sticks his hands under his armpits like he’s cold, and sits next to me again.

  “What was that all about?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and dives back in with his kisses. “Take off my dress,” I say. I would do it myself, but it would look a lot less sexy one-handed. Not that a cast is sexy, but me trying to take off my shirt while wearing the cast would be worse.

  He stops kissing me again. “No.”

  “No?”

  “I can’t.” He closes his eyes. Shakes his head.

  I don’t understand his hesitation. “Is it me? You don’t like the new me? I’m too different.”

  His eyes pop open, widen. “I really like you. That’s not the problem.”

  “Then what is?”

  He shakes his head again.

  Now that I have the green light on his feelings, I want to keep pushing him. He wants me and now I want him. Seems easy enough. I kick off my shoes. I stand and try pulling up my dress. It gets stuck on my shoulders.

  Wyatt makes this whine in the back of his throat while he stares at my body. Finally, he reaches over and plucks the dress from my head. My hair goes everywhere. He stands, his face serious and determined now. His hands snake around to my back and pop off my bra. My arms shake as he hooks his fingers in my underwear and pulls them down. His eyes flick over me. He turns cherry red, and his gaze is on my face again.

  I climb backward onto the bed.

  My body is shaking. I close my eyes. My skin is shaking independently from my muscles, which are also shaking. It’s like they are shaking in different directions. It’s an earthquake—tectonic plates shifting. I’m both chilled and hot. I open my eyes to pull the thin sheet over the front of me.

  “Don’t.”

  I tug it back down. And I’m shaking.

  I open my eyes and watch as he undresses and my eyes roll over every inch of him. His body stands strong and straight. His stance is confident as lean muscles stretch and writhe under light olive-colored skin. His curly brown hair falls into his eyes and he doesn’t push it away. I stare at his naked hips and shoulders and lean abs. He’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, even if I don’t have anything to compare it to.

  After he climbs onto the bed, I close my eyes again. It’s all too much, just too much. If I don’t tell him to stop, I might burst. I am so not going to tell him to stop. This is what I want. Old Liv be damned. She is forgotten and I’m going to do this.

  This will be my first time. My very first time. Wyatt’s first time.

  His body slides over mine. All of my skin touches all of his skin.

  I force my eyes open. His gaze is fixed on mine. And I’m still shaking.

  He kisses me and his hands move all over my body and my good hand is all over him. My broken arm keeps trying to jump in on the action, but every time it does, it aches and has to take a rest after a few seconds. I grip his hair in my good hand, pull it to the side so I can kiss his neck. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer. He groans into my ear.

  His kisses taste like coffee. I can’t get enough of him. I’m kissing him everywhere, tasting everything. I feel his kisses on my shoulders, my neck, my jaw. He still hasn’t pushed into me and I’m so nervous for when he does, but so eager. I spread my legs and—

  He jumps up suddenly and vaults off me backward, crawling off the bed. “Oh, God.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  I sit up. “Don’t. Come back.” I try to grab
his arm, but he’s too quick. I’m scared he’ll run away again. “Don’t worry about any of that religious stuff. Please. I want this.”

  He shakes his head, not looking at me. Tugs his underwear on. His pants. Finally his shirt.

  I wrap the sheet around myself, tightly. “Please,” I say again. “Don’t run away. You’re always running away. Don’t go. At least talk to me. Please.” He still won’t look at me. “Look at me, dammit!”

  He does. His eyes are hard and red. Is he angry?

  “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, but I need you to know that I want this. I’m ready.”

  “It’s not you. It’s me. I’m not ready. I...” he hops in place as he hurriedly slips on his socks. Then his shoes. I’m running out of time.

  “Just sit down. Let’s talk.”

  Another shake of his head. “I...can’t.” He heads for the door, running fingers through the hair that only moments before had been intertwined with my fingers. This crushes me. “Why?” I ask.

  With a grip on the handle, he pauses. His voice is stiff when he says, “I lied about you being a virgin.”

  My shock registers before I realize he’s gone. My subconscious yells, I knew it.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Sophomore Year at UCLA

  I stood outside James’s dorm room, drunk and determined. I gripped a bottle of champagne in one hand, a condom in the other, and an attitude that no matter what, I wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  I knocked. He answered, and I pushed myself against him, sticking my tongue down his throat before he could object. At first his body tensed in surprise, but it relaxed some with the kissing. He started kissing me back. I dropped the bottle on the floor with a heavy thunk and pulled him toward me. We flopped on the bed that I assumed was his. The other was made and had a large pink bear sitting on it, staring at me accusingly. I hoped that was his roommate’s bed—a roommate who I’d had to stalk for weeks to figure out when he’d be gone. I overheard him tell a friend at breakfast a few days ago that he had plans to stay with his girlfriend in the next town over all weekend.

  James was shirtless and sported slinky black shorts. I could feel his hard-on over my skirt. This was working. While straddling him, I tugged off my shirt, making sure my lips stayed in contact with his for as long as possible. I didn’t want to lose him; he could be a little ADD in bed. I’d had this day planned for months and I wasn’t going to screw it up.

  The plan was simple: wait until the roommate was gone, be drunk and available, seduce him, and then tell him I wanted to get back together.

  He let me undress him. He let me put a condom on him and pull up my skirt. I’d gone commando, so we could skip the ripping-the-panties-off step. I didn’t look him in the eye through all of this. I thought if I seemed aloof, he’d let me do what I needed to do. I pushed myself down on him, sweet pressure bouncing through me. I hadn’t had sex in a year and a half. I hoped he could say the same, even though I’d seen him with a super sexy blonde at a club once—I’d found out her name was Megan—dancing dirtier than he and I ever had. I wanted to take a pair of scissors to her perfectly straightened hair and mini skirt. I’d started to see them around campus, holding hands and kissing, and it made me furious. He shouldn’t be with anyone but me. So I’d decided to do something drastic. To make him see the error of his way. Now he was cheating on her. The thought made me smile.

  I pushed my hips back and forth a few times and kept kissing him, and after only a few minutes, we both finished at the same time in a heap of sweat in each other’s arms. As my drunk began to wear off, I started to feel self-conscious—vulnerable and embarrassed about the way I’d just acted. I wanted him to kiss my forehead and tell me he missed me or pull me tightly to him. But it seemed like I was holding on tighter to him than he was to me.

  In the silence, I decided that his room didn’t look like the James I remembered. It was messy: clothes thrown wherever, posters hung crookedly and books lay open—pages ripped—on the floor. One stack doubled as a nightstand on top of which a moldy glass of what might have at one time been Kool-Aid stood. James had always been neat in appearance, in himself and his room.

  It occurred to me then that I might not know the boy who’s wrapped in my arms anymore. We hadn’t had a proper conversation in almost two years. That much time can completely alter a person. I mean, look at me. I’d become stalkerish, obsessive and depressed. My entire world as I knew it had revolved around James for so long and now that he was gone, I kept trying to recapture that feeling of when we were together. I couldn’t get more than a taste of that feeling at a time and it felt like I was starving myself.

  I knew if I told him I wanted to get back together right now, he’d ask me to leave again. Somehow, I just knew that’s what he’d say and I didn’t want him rejecting me ever again. I wouldn’t be able to stand it. So I stood up, straightened my skirt and picked up my abandoned bottle of champagne. It was a cheap brand that had a twist off cap and I opened the bottle and took a swig. I didn’t look back when the door closed behind me.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Now

  Chloe comes back with food and tries to make me talk about what happened in her absence and why Wyatt isn’t here. I don’t want to talk because the notavirgin notavirgin thought consumes all of my brainpower, like a phone that can’t hold a charge. So we sit there with the TV on, watching some teen cooking competition and picking at the remains of vegan sandwiches that taste like cardboard. I don’t tell Chloe I don’t like the food because I’m sure Old Liv would have approved.

  Why would Wyatt lie to me about the whole virgin thing? I can’t get my mind around it. I can’t think of one reason except maybe because he was trying to protect me somehow. But whatever reason he has, I’m pissed that he’s keeping it from me. I trusted him and everyone else to help me fill in the blanks about who I am, but so many things I’ve been told about myself don’t seem to fit. And now Wyatt has actually admitted to lying to me. When the last of the sun slips into hiding for the night, Wyatt is still MIA and my anger is starting to boil instead of simmer. I ask Chloe, “Do you still want to go to Pink Dollars with me? We could take a cab.” I need to get out of the hotel room, out of my head, for a little while. We have a plan and I want to stick to it.

  “Sure!” she says, sounding more cheerful than she has for the last few hours. She complained about everything on TV and how the food screwed with her stomach. Maybe she was bored or didn’t think we’d get to go out without Wyatt. “I wish I had some better clothes to wear, though.”

  She’s dressed fine for a nightclub: designer jeans, low-cut blouse, blonde hair straightened and gobs of makeup. “You look nice.”

  “But do you want to go?” she asks. “You kind of seem upset.”

  “I am,” I say, finally opening up. “Wyatt lied to me about something and I’m pissed about it. Did you know I’m not a virgin?”

  It takes her a long, slow minute to answer. “Yes.”

  I know she wasn’t there for the conversation, but I still would have liked to have known that information beforehand. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I...” she pauses, thinks. “You didn’t ask.”

  This is technically true and since I realize it would’ve been impossible for her to tell me everything about who I am, I let it go. “How many guys have I slept with?”

  After another long pause, she says, “Just one, that I know of.”

  My mind begins to put pieces together. Wyatt telling me about James. Chloe saying I’ve slept with only one person. But if James was the one I slept with, I would have been fifteen. I mean, if everything else everyone has been telling me is true. Which, I’m beginning to realize, it might not be. “Was it James?”

  Her eyes widen. “How do you know that name?”

  “Wyatt told
me I had another boyfriend, before we got together. Was it him that I slept with?”

  Chloe just stares at me, looking unsure of how to answer. “I think you should talk to Wyatt about this.”

  I pound my fist on the bed. “I don’t want to talk to Wyatt, I want to talk to you. Wyatt has already admitted to lying to me, I want to hear it from someone else!”

  She sighs, rolls off the bed, and begins fluffing her hair in the hotel mirror. “Yes, okay. You slept with James. And only James. That I know of anyway. You could have slept with other people and not told me, though.”

  “Do you think I would do that? Not tell you?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Do you know why Wyatt would be so weird with me or lie about being a virgin?”

  Chloe straightens her clothes before she answers. “Wyatt wants what’s best for you. I don’t know exactly why he would lie, but there’s probably a good explanation.”

  * * *

  As we walk through the lobby and outside, I see Wyatt leaning against the brick wall of the hotel, looking smoldering. If he were a character in an old movie, he would have a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Ready?” he asks without looking at me.

  I keep my anger in check when I say, “If you still want to go,” but the trust I had in him is gone now and I think he can sense it.

  “I don’t, but it’s the reason we came isn’t it?” There’s an edge to his voice I’ve never heard before. Like he’s the one who should be mad, not me.

  I want to yell at him, to tell him he doesn’t get to be the one who’s pissed in this scenario, but I don’t want to do it in front of Chloe. I’m trying to keep my mind open about him lying to me, hoping there is a damn good reason, but I can’t get past all my anger.

  “We’ll just take a cab,” I say to him. “Since you don’t want to go.”

  A scowl gathers above his eyes and I think he might be offended now instead of pissed. “I’m not going to let you take a cab.”