by Chad Kultgen
This was the first boy Allison had a crush on, the first boy she had thought of in a romantic manner, the first boy she imagined being in this exact scenario with. That meant something to her, and now he was sitting next to her in a bed with his shirt off. When Brandon reached back up and pulled her toward him again, she gave in. He kissed her roughly and put his hand under her shirt, pawing at her ribcage and breasts. Allison liked everything about her body except her breasts. She knew boys liked big breasts and hers were among the smallest of any girl in the eighth grade. She opened her mouth and let Brandon insert his tongue into it, deep enough that their teeth knocked together repeatedly. It was unpleasant, but she was too concerned with attempting to detect any dissatisfaction Brandon may have had with her breasts to protest.
Allison knew she wasn’t ready for anything that she assumed was about to happen, but she didn’t want to disappoint Brandon. She didn’t want to feel the same rejection she had felt that last time they’d spoken, in the seventh grade.
She had had her first menstruation over the summer, but it had been somewhat erratic and irregular in the months that followed, so Allison had only had cause to insert two tampons into her vagina. These were the only experiences she knew that involved anything being inserted into her. This was much different.
She wished Brandon’s technique were gentler. The texture of his hands was rough and his motion was jerky and too deep, at times painful. He eventually removed Allison’s shirt, skirt, and underwear so she lay completely nude in Cal Pearson’s bed. He then stood up and removed his own jeans and underwear, leaving his knee-high football socks on, pushed down around his ankles. She noted this and added it to the list of details that she would always remember and would always wish had been different.
Brandon lowered himself back down on top of her and said, “Have you ever done this before?”
Allison said, “No.”
He said, “Cool.”
Allison said, “Have you?”
He said, “Yeah, I’m in high school. I’ve fucked like three times. It’s awesome. You don’t really have to do anything. It’s mainly on me. Just lay there. You’re actually pretty lucky that I’ve done it enough to know what I’m doing. You’ll totally love it.”
Allison said, “Do you have a girlfriend or anything?”
He said, “Fuck no.”
She waited for Brandon to do whatever he was about to do. She felt remarkably like she was waiting for an injection to be administered by a doctor. She hoped that she was making the event worse in her mind with anticipation than it would turn out to be in reality. She looked up at Brandon. He was looking away from her, concentrating, propping himself up on one arm, and then he entered her.
It was unlike anything Allison had ever felt. It didn’t seem like something that big should ever be inserted into her vagina. As he thrust into her with more and more intensity, she felt his penis pushing against her hymen and said, “Ow, ow—slow down.” Brandon said, “Oh, yeah. The first time for you is gonna hurt a little, but it’s like something you kind of have to do to just get it over with. I have to pop your cherry. You know what I’m saying? We can stop if you want, I’m down. But eventually you’re gonna have to let some dude do it. My dick’s already in and everything, but I’m not, like, a rapist or some shit. Your call.”
Allison thought about this for a brief second. It seemed rational enough, what Brandon was saying. She had heard that a girl’s first time could hurt, but that it got better each successive time thereafter. She reasoned that she was already there, already having sex, and it was with a boy that she had a crush on for a long time—the first boy she ever really liked. She said, “It’s cool.”
Brandon said, “Cool,” and thrust his hips forward with more intensity than he had before. On the fourth such thrust, he ruptured Allison’s hymen and said, “Boom—popped that cherry,” and put his tongue in her ear as he continued to thrust in and out of her.
The pain was intense, but she had become used to experiencing physical pain from hunger. She had developed countless techniques that she employed to ignore pain. In this case she chose to think about a time when she was younger and her parents took her and her little brother on a vacation to SeaWorld in Orlando, Florida. She had a specific memory of that day—something inconsequential, but a memory to which she had always attached great happiness.
Her father had stopped at an ice cream stand and, without her even having to make the request, bought her a waffle cone with chocolate ice cream and sprinkles—her favorite kind of ice cream cone. There was something about the look on her father’s face as he gave it to her that would always remind her of happiness, of a time when an ice-cream cone could mean the world to her. She missed her father in that moment, as she lay in Cal Pearson’s bed with Brandon Lender on top of her, inside of her. She wondered what her father was doing at that moment.
Brandon said, “Oh yeah, I’m almost there,” and then he shuddered and bit down hard on her nipple as he thrust into her one last time with all of his force. He said, “Oh shit. That was like fucking an Olsen twin or some shit. You cool?”
Allison nodded, on the verge of tears. Brandon said, “Cool,” as he pulled out of her and looked down at his penis. He said, “Snap—murder scene on my dick. I’m gonna hit the bathroom down here. You cool with the one upstairs to clean up and everything?”
Allison nodded again. Brandon said, “Cool,” then put on his shirt and pants and headed out of Cal’s room saying, “You should probably hurry up. Cal could be back here soon, and he probably wouldn’t be that cool with me and you fucking in here.”
Allison lay on Cal’s bed for a few seconds, just feeling the pain between her legs. She wasn’t a virgin anymore, which relieved her on some level, but she wished it had been different. She pulled her skirt back up and put on her shirt but held her underwear in her hand, not wanting to get blood on them. As she stood from Cal’s bed, she felt a combination of blood and semen run down her leg and wondered if sex would be like this every time. She hoped not.
After she washed what she could off her legs and vagina in the upstairs bathroom, she put her underwear back on and came back downstairs, where Brandon sat on the couch playing Guitar Hero by himself. She thought about sitting down next to him but got no indication from him that it was something he wanted so she didn’t. Instead, she said, “Do you want my number to text me or anything?”
Brandon said, “Just get me on Facebook if you want to fuck again or something. But don’t put any shit on my wall or anything. Seriously. This shit is probably best on the d-low. Ya heard?”
Allison said, “Okay.” She took out her cell phone, found Brandon’s Facebook page, and sent him a friend request along with a message that read, “I had a good time hanging out 2nite.” She thought about how Brandon had compared her to an Olsen twin as she walked back into Rory’s room. He said, “Okay, that was, like, fifteen minutes—you were either taking the world’s biggest shit or you were totally flirting with my brother or Brandon. Talk.”
Allison thought briefly about telling Rory and Brooke everything that had just happened, but found that she felt the same way about having just had sex for the first time as she did about not eating. It was a secret that carried some shame for her, but also some power. It was hers and hers alone. She said, “A lady never talks about what she does in the bathroom.”
Rory said, “You little slut,” as Allison climbed into his bed, hoping not to bleed through her underwear, and they all continued watching Oprah and Mike Tyson. After half an hour or so went by without her friend request being accepted by Brandon, she began to wonder if he was ignoring it. She chose to convince herself that he had just left his phone at home or hadn’t checked it since she sent the friend request.
To take her mind off wondering when or if Brandon would add her as a friend, Allison began to compose, in her head, the post she would write on the Ana’s Underground Grotto message board when she got home. She would omit any feelings of shame
, guilt, or doubt that she might actually have had during the act as she wrote the post. She decided the focus of her post would be the idea that if a girl were to maintain her diet and get thin enough she could get any boy she wanted—even one who, less than a year before, had thought she was fat enough to insult. She wondered how many complimentary comments she would get on her post.
Chris Truby sat in his room masturbating and watching a video clip of a girl urinating while a man had anal sex with her. Hannah Clint was on her way to his house in order for them to begin work on their 9/11 project by interviewing his parents, who were in the living room watching a rerun of Deal or No Deal. He was about to ejaculate at the moment in the video clip when another man entered the frame and urinated into the girl’s open mouth as the man who was having anal sex with her said, “Drink that piss, you slut.” Chris found a dirty sock on the floor a few feet away, inserted his still-erect penis, and continued masturbating for a few seconds, still watching the girl drink urine while being penetrated anally, until he himself ejaculated into the sock. He found this method of masturbation to be the most economic when his parents were still awake. It required no trip to the bathroom for cleanup. He merely had to remove the sock, which contained all of his semen, hide it under his bed for twenty-four hours, and then deposit it in the family dirty clothes hamper with the rest of his laundry. He would hide his socks in order to give the semen a chance to dry so there would be no chance that his mother might accidentally come across a wet spot in the cloth, smell it to determine what it might be, and then discover that he had been masturbating into his socks.
After buttoning his pants, Chris lay on his bed feeling calm, as he usually did immediately after masturbation. He wondered if Hannah had ever masturbated or watched pornography. He wondered if she would object to him showing her some on his computer after they finished interviewing his parents. He wondered if she still harbored any sexually explicit thoughts or feelings for him, or if they had evaporated. He assumed none of these questions would be answered that night.
The doorbell rang some minutes later and Chris’s father, Don, answered the door to find Hannah, whom he was not expecting. He said, “Hello?”
Hannah said, “Hi, um, is Chris home . . . or?”
Don said, “One second,” and as he turned around, Chris was already making his way toward the front door.
Chris said, “Hey, Dad, uh, I spaced. Forgot to mention—this is Hannah. We’re working on a project for school. Need to interview you and Mom tonight.”
Don looked at Hannah. She was holding a notebook and wearing a tight, low-cut shirt, and he could see that, even at thirteen or fourteen years old, her breasts were larger than his own wife’s; they had the perfect shape of newly formed breasts, before any sagging had set in with age. Don felt some guilt about the envy he felt for his son, but it passed almost immediately. Don said, “Well, Hannah, it’s nice to meet you. Come on in and let’s see what we can do about this interview.”
Don led Hannah and Chris into the living room, where Rachel Truby sat on the couch watching television. Don said, “Honey, this is Hannah. She and our son are working on a project for school and they need to interview us. You up for it?”
Rachel was tired, and her thoughts had been concentrated on Secretluvur, and the possibility of excitement that he represented, and the fact that to experience that excitement she would have to cheat on her husband. She was glad to have something to take her mind off it, at least for a few minutes. She said, “Sure. What are we being interviewed about?”
Chris said, “9/11.”
Don said, “Jesus. They’re having you do a project on 9/11? That’s some pretty serious stuff.”
Rachel said, “I think it’s good. You guys probably don’t even remember it, do you?”
Chris said, “Not really.”
Hannah said, “I’m pretty sure we were too young.”
Rachel said, “Well, let’s go in the kitchen. I’ll make us some drinks and you guys can ask us whatever you want.”
Once in the kitchen, Hannah took out her notebook and opened it to a blank page. Chris said, “Are you going to write this down? We can just voice-memo it.”
Hannah said, “I guess we should do both, maybe.”
Chris said, “Cool,” took out his phone, opened a voice-memo application, hit the record button, and set it down on the table in front of his mother and father. Don looked at his wife and wondered if it was possible that this act of family bonding, which had been rare in recent months, would curry him any favor with her later that night, and invite some sort of sexual interaction. He hoped it would.
Chris began, “So I guess, um, what was it like on 9/11?”
Don said, “Go ahead, honey,” and put his hand on her arm, using the opportunity to initiate some form of physical intimacy that he hoped he could escalate to a sexual advance later in the night.
Rachel said, “Well, I guess it was scary for everyone. I think we all felt pretty safe, I mean as a country, up until that point, and then none of us did. It was just really, really scary. I don’t know how else to put it.”
Hannah said, “Um, how did you, like, find out that it was happening and everything? Did you get a text or . . .”
Don said, “A text? No. Text messages weren’t really a thing back then. We didn’t even have cell phones yet, did we, honey?”
Rachel shook her head and said, “No. We didn’t get them until that year for Christmas, actually. And we got them because we thought if anything like 9/11 ever happened again we should be able to get ahold of each other as fast as possible.”
Don said, “Yeah, we actually found out about it from a regular phone call—like a landline phone call. My brother, who lived in New York at the time, called us up and just said, ‘Turn on the TV. We’re under attack.’ And then he hung up. He’s a weird guy and plays jokes and things from time to time, but I could tell from his voice that something was seriously going on, so I turned on the TV about one minute before the second plane hit and we, Chris’s mom and I, both sat there watching it.”
Chris said, “Where was I during all of this?”
Rachel said, “You were asleep in your room. We didn’t know if we should wake you up or what we should do. I mean, you were so young, you wouldn’t have understood what was going on or anything.”
Chris said, “What were you guys doing when your brother called—like, actually doing?”
Don knew exactly what they were doing: They were having sex. It was at a time in their relationship when morning sex before work was common and they both enjoyed it. It was difficult to have sex at night because Chris was young and didn’t sleep well through the night, but he slept in the mornings and this gave them a daily sexual opportunity. Don remembered the entire encounter. Rachel woke him up by slowly stroking his penis into an erection and then began to fellate him. He reached down and pulled on one of her legs, which had become his standard means of indicating that he wanted his wife to position her vagina over his face to engage in mutual oral sex. They did this for the next few minutes and then Rachel moved down and slid Don’s penis into her vagina while she sat facing away on top of him. It was one of Don’s favorite positions, because he enjoyed the way Rachel’s buttocks looked as he spread them apart with his hands to get a better view of his penis sliding into her. He remembered how her body used to look, how she used to enjoy sex. It seemed to him that she had become a different person and his desire to have sex with her now had nothing to do with her, it was just a base desire that all men had to put their penis into things, and his wife was just that—a thing. A person he used to know and used to be attracted to, but now just a thing, the closest thing to him in physical proximity that had places for him to put his penis. Don felt pathetic, but was made to feel even more pathetic as he thought about the fact that this thing in which he wanted to put his penis wouldn’t even allow it with any acceptable frequency. He thought briefly about telling his son and this girl he’d just met the truth, that
he was having sex with his wife when the world was ending—just how it should have been—but he knew that that would end any chance of having sex with her that night. So he let Rachel field the question.
Don said, “Honey, you want to take this one?”
Some small part of Don thought that maybe his wife would tell the truth, but she said, “We were getting ready for work, you know, mind on a million other things. Definitely not thinking that our country was going to be attacked. And then we got that call and turned on the TV and just sat there all day. We didn’t even go to work, just watched the news all day and tried to make sense of it.”
Chris said, “Did you guys know anyone who was in it—like, actually in the buildings or anything?”
Don said, “No, like we said, your uncle Cliff was in New York at the time but he wasn’t anywhere near the Twin Towers. That’s probably the closest we were to having someone we actually knew in it. Didn’t make it any less scary, though.”
Hannah said, “I read online that there were a lot of candlelight vigils and group prayer gatherings and stuff. Did you guys do any of that?”
Rachel said, “No. We just stayed home and watched TV, mostly. I honestly just felt like somebody knocked the wind out of me. I didn’t want to do anything except sit and watch TV.”
Hannah said, “Um . . . what was the biggest news story that was happening right before 9/11?”
