Did I really just make that joke? Even just in my head? Who am I? Suddenly, I have a gorgeous boyfriend and he’s sweet and cool and he’s totally into me and I’m making jokes about something I’ve never done, but I really want to do this for him because I know guys are supposed to love that and—
Well, you get the picture.
His parents weren’t home, but we’d locked his bedroom door anyway. We got down to our usual business, but by now, that was all—I don’t want to say routine, because it was thrilling and incredible every time—but it was ground we’d covered before. It was safe. We were on his bed, rolling around, kissing, touching, over the clothes, under the clothes, grinding … everything that had been part of our typical repertoire. Our comfort zone, if you will … in more ways than one.
His body was reacting. And my body was reacting. Though the evidence of his body reacting was harder to hide.
Way, way harder.
So, I finally got the courage to pull his jeans all the way off.
“Hailey,” he started, and he looked confused and concerned, like, we haven’t talked about this. But I silenced him by putting my finger over his lips and smiling.
If Chris knew me better—sure, in ways he knew me better than anyone else in my life, but I’m talking life experience here—he’d have known that smile. It’s the smile I throw on whenever I’m scared shitless but desperate to convince you otherwise. I’m really good at it too. I get that confident look in my eye, lift my chin just a hair and turn up the corners of my mouth with a presence that says I’ve got this, while in my head I’m actually thinking, How the hell am I ever going to pull this off?
Oh, well. Like Shakespeare said, Once more unto the breach, though I’m pretty sure he wasn’t talking about this, and I’m honestly not sure what that means anyway, and even as those thoughts were racing through my mind I was suddenly going down on Chris.
My heart rate felt like it went from zero to sixty in seconds, though it probably wasn’t zero in the first place because then I’d have been dead, and, yes, I was freaking out a little, so these were the things that were going through my mind even as I kissed and licked him on his thighs and near and around the … um … goal zone.
He was loving it, no question about that—it would have been obvious if he were acting, but just the sensation of my mouth in that area had him shuddering and letting out small gasps. In retrospect, this was a good thing. But at the time, I would have put fifty-fifty odds on whether I was pleasing him or killing him.
I wasn’t used to these kinds of gasps. In my tenure on this planet to date, gasps were generally limited to “Somebody farted at a fancy dinner” or “Oh damn, yet another kid got slammed in the crotch on Tosh.0.” This whole existence of I’m-loving-this gasps was road less traveled for me. So it took a minute for me to register that these were good gasps, and that I wasn’t doing something wrong. (My uncertainty probably messed with the flow, but seriously, cut me a little slack.)
Being so close to the “target” was awkward, I’m not gonna lie. It was like, THERE IT IS! Right there, up close and personal. And I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t analyze the living shit out of it, so my inner monologue was basically going:
Holy crap, this is really happening!
Please don’t let me be too lame at it …
Then again, if I were a total pro, that would probably make me a slut, so maybe it’s better that I’m inexperienced …
But then again, he knows I’m not experienced, and would he really think it was a bad thing if I were great at it …
No, he’d be psyched. So let’s get back to please don’t be lame and …
Holy crap, this is really happening!
I felt like I was Christopher Columbus, exploring new lands full of—hell, I don’t know—penises.
Actually, it was more like whoever explored Area 51. Not to say that Chris’s, um, business looked like an alien per se. I recall thinking it was pretty standard fare as far as my entirely limited knowledge went, and then I recall thinking that I needed to—
STOP THINKING! Just do it! (Thanks, Nike. I’m sure that’s exactly what you had in mind for your campaign. Just like Shakespeare.)
So I did. I just did it. I kissed it and I touched it and I, well, got acquainted with it. It was a little weird at first, like going to another country where people drive on the left side of the road and eat their French fries with mayonnaise, not that I’ve ever been to another country but I hear that happens and you just have to … adapt, you know? So that’s what I was doing. Adapting. He has stuff and I have stuff, and granted, this stuff looks like totally different, but as best I could tell, his stuff was not at all objecting to my stuff, and thank God because I had no idea what I was doing, but I seemed to be doing a pretty good job, so … I just kept doing what I was doing.
Chris arched his back and closed his eyes, and he was obviously having a wonderful time (believe me, I would have known otherwise, and quickly), and yet I knew that was my opening, so I …
… snatched five Altoids from the outside pocket of my bag and quickly popped them in my mouth.
You thought that part was good? Get ready for a “Curiously Strong” blow job.
After some more touching and teasing, I delicately took him into my mouth, looking up at Chris’s face, noticing how excited he was. It made me even more excited to do a good job. I can’t say I felt completely comfortable under the circumstances—no amount of practice with Anya and fruit could equate with the reality of the situation—but I think I adapted remarkably well, all things considered. I even started feeling a little—I’m not sure if this counts as a pun, so bear with me—cocky. So when Chris’s eyes were closed, I slipped one more mint in my mouth. You know, to make it extra special.
Because just plain special wasn’t enough.
God, I’m an asshole.
Anyway … I was doing what Anya had shown me with the banana, using both my hands and my mouth, but I was having a bit of a hard time navigating all the mints plus him in my mouth. That’s a lot of stuff to have in your mouth at one time. So there I was, doing this thing I’ve never done before, and I’m trying not to gag because I know that will make him feel bad and worry about me, but I’ve also got all these freaking mints in my mouth, and as I’m moving on Chris they’re moving in my mouth and it was a lot going on all at once. Kind of like what I imagine Las Vegas to be like. Not that Vegas is all Altoids and dicks but, you know, just like sensory overload.
Anyway, Chris seemed to still be really happy, and I didn’t want to screw that up, so I tried to breathe through my nose and … boy, was it getting minty strong. My eyes started watering and I was getting overcome with minty goodness, but it wasn’t goodness, it was just really fucking minty and I thought, I might have overdone it with the mints, and that’s pretty much when that concern was—
Completely, brutally and horrifically confirmed.
You know when they say someone turned on a dime? They’re going one way and then, bam, they’re going the other.
Chris turned on a dime.
He suddenly grunted—a bad grunt, a really clearly bad grunt, obviously nothing like the good grunts he’d been making earlier. It was a grunt like he’d just stubbed his toe or touched a hot burner on a stovetop. There was no mistaking it for anything but a Make-It-Stop-Right-Now grunt.
Chris suddenly looked … scared?
I felt my skin get cold and I pulled away from him slowly, looking up at him. Chris was bug-eyed. I’d never seen him bug-eyed. He’s a ridiculously good-looking young man, but I can tell you this: No one looks good bug-eyed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He’d already looked pained. Seconds later, he looked ten times worse.
“It burns!” he yelled, suddenly pulling away, standing, looking around helplessly, panicked, terrified.
And then it dawned on me.
Shit.
I should have gone with the ice.
Dammit, why didn’t I use
the ice?!
I hope I haven’t destroyed Chris’s penis. What am I going to tell his mom? “I’m really sorry, I meant all the best for your son’s penis. Seriously, I was a big fan.”
Chris started to bounce up and down, shaking his arms, confused, reaching down to touch himself, yanking his hands back, totally freaked out.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, though I didn’t mean to mumble, realizing my words were mumbled because …
“What’s in your mouth?” Chris asked.
I slowly opened wide, shamefully revealing the hearty sum of only-somewhat-melted Altoids still resting on my tongue.
“Why?!” he cried as he raced to the bathroom.
The confused and bewildered look on his face as his eyes widened was something that will be burned into my memory forever:
The day I burned my boyfriend’s penis off.
Why did I listen to Anya? She is the girl who got knocked up freshman year, after all. Getting sex tips from her was like asking Amy Winehouse for advice on how to use drugs safely.
I heard Chris turn on the shower, and I sat there, waiting for him to wash off, feeling like the biggest idiot on the planet. I was half feeling stupid and half genuinely concerned that I’d permanently injured him, but as a whole it was just pretty much the worst.
He’d been in the bathroom for close to ten minutes (but it seemed like at least six weeks), so finally I knocked on the door.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
The longest pause in the history of ever. And then, eventually, a voice:
“I guess.”
I stood there awkwardly and waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Can I come in? Or will you come out?”
Finally he opened the door. He was soaking wet, and he looked so cute … but not exactly welcoming.
He stepped forward, towel around his waist, and sat on the edge of the bed. I slowly steeled myself and sat down next to him, softly placing a hand on his thigh. He didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. And then—
“What were you thinking?” he asked.
I didn’t have any great answers. I went with what I had.
“I wanted it to be special.”
“Oh, it was special, alright.”
I sighed. “Look … I asked a friend for tips. I just wanted it to be good. I wanted you to like it. It was supposed to be tingly and awesome. I guess it wasn’t.…”
Chris pondered this for a moment. “I noticed the tingle before it got bad,” he said. “I’ve never done that before, but I’ve heard about it. It wasn’t bad at first. In fact, it was, you know, kinda good. But I think the idea is you’re just supposed to do a little. Not—”
“Like a mouthful.”
“Right. Definitely—definitely—not a mouthful.”
I don’t even know where the tears came from, but they were flowing before I even realized it. I guess it was a mixture of the anxiety and fear and the stress of this turn of events, and—I don’t cry often. That’s just not me. But it wasn’t like I was even crying. I was just there with Chris and my face was all wet, and I could taste the salt on my lips, and I started wiping the tears away, and—
“Hey, it’s okay,” Chris said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his body, which immediately seemed like pretty much a remedy for any problem anyone’s ever had.
He continued, “Don’t worry about it. You just don’t know these things until they come up. Like last year, I had this pulled muscle in one of my shoulders from baseball, so I was rubbing all this Bengay on it—you know what that is?”
“Yeah. Muscle stuff. Gets … hot, then cold, sort of.”
“Right. But that’s just on regular skin. What you might not realize is that you don’t want to immediately touch anywhere around your eyes or any, um, sensitive areas while that stuff’s still on your hands. But I used it and then I went to pee, and…”
“Not good?”
“Not good,” he said. “Burned like hellfire for a while, then went totally numb.”
“Worse than tonight?” I asked.
“Um … well … kind of the same. Once it really kicked in, at least.”
More tears were welling up, but I tried to hold them in. “Oh God! Chris, I’m so sorry. Are you mad? Of course you’re mad. I’m such an idiot. I’m so, so sorry!”
“No,” he said. “I’m not mad. I was … surprised. And, you know, terrified.”
He delivered that with a smile that demolished me. With love, and guilt, and … probably some other stuff, but it’s a little hard to tell when you’re demolished.
I took a deep breath, wiped my eyes to stem the tide and turned to him.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t say I’m sorry enough.”
“Hailey, it’s okay. It wasn’t bad, well, for a while, at least. But next time … no tricks, no props. You’re all I need. Just you.”
“Deal,” I said. “Promise. I won’t even brush my teeth that day.”
We both laughed, and virtually at the same time, we both said, “That would be gross.”
He was really sweet after that. We spent a little more time on his bed just hanging out, cuddling, talking about things. I still felt somewhat mortified, but Chris had a way of making it better. He made me feel safe. He made me feel calm. He made me feel at peace. But despite all that, one thing remained foremost in my mind:
I wanted to kill Anya.
* * *
The next day at school, Andy stopped me in the hall.
“Hey, Hailey,” he said. “Got a mint?”
Ugh.
“Very funny, Andy,” I said. “Now I have two people to kill.”
“Huh,” he said. “Two?”
“Don’t ask,” I said. “I can’t believe Chris told you.”
“Oh, come on, don’t be mad. He only told me, nobody else, and he was totally chill about it. Said you two had a good laugh about it after.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“So, seriously: How many did you eat, like, twelve?”
“Five!” I said, and Andy just laughed.
“Just so you know: Nobody likes creative pizza or creative blow jobs. They’re good just the way they are.”
“Duly noted,” I said. “Now if you wouldn’t mind minding your own business, I have a person to kill.”
“Two,” he reminded me, walking off.
* * *
In our quest for equality (or, you know, popularity … whatever) we decided it was time to throw our own party. All this we’re-so-lucky-to-be-invited crap was yesterday’s news. We had come into our own. We were cool. We had friends. So when Xandra said that her parents were going out of town for the weekend it was a total no-brainer:
Party at Xandra’s.
(Sounds like the title of a skin flick, doesn’t it? Not that I’ve ever even seen a porno, not a real one, anyway—and I’m not sure they actually make whole movies anymore in the Internet age, from what I’ve heard—but you have to admit: That would make a pretty good title. Anything with “Party” and an “X” word in the title is a good porn title.)
You should have heard us trying to plan the thing. We wanted it to be really special, and while we wouldn’t have the funds or the historical legends of Skyler Parties, we did have creativity and a whole bunch of it. We took over a picnic table at a city park near the school and hashed it out over a bagful of take-out burritos (no sour cream or guac for me—stupid diet).
“What about a Les Mis party?” Xandra asked.
“Les no,” Anya and I said simultaneously.
“Lay down and think of something better,” Emily said, playing off the pronunciation of Les. “We do want straight boys to come too.”
“Heh-heh,” Anya said. “You said ‘we want straight boys to come.’”
“Settle down, Beavis,” I said.
“Point taken,” Xandra said. “I’m not good at this stuff.”
“Heh-heh,” Any
a said. “You said ‘point taken.’”
“I don’t even get that one,” Kura said.
“Xandra wants to … um … take in a point,” Anya said.
“Perv!” Xan said.
Cue more friendly shit-talk for another fifteen minutes or so, until we finally got back on point:
“How about a Pimps and Hoes party?” Dahlia said.
“I’ll be a pimp,” Grace said.
“You’d make a fine pimp,” I nodded.
“And you—” Grace started, turning to Anya.
“Done and done,” Anya groaned, pelting her with a chip.
Grace swung around to me. “And you a fine ho,” Grace said. “Emphasis on the fiiiine.”
Emily chimed in: “What about a White Party?”
“Racist!” Kura yelled. “I want to go too!”
Commence more laughter and pelting.
“No White Party,” Anya said. “Too P. Diddy.”
“A Black-and-White Party?” Emily offered. “That could be cool.”
“We could do our own C-and-C party,” I said.
Everyone stopped and stared.
“Dude, I do not have that kind of bank,” Emily said.
“Our own version,” I clarified. “Not Skyler’s. Cupcakes and Cocktails.”
“I’m not mad at that,” Grace said.
“They’re all too gimmicky,” Anya said. “We can have cupcakes, and of course we’ll have cocktails, but what about just having a fun party?”
“Okay,” I said. “But it would be fun if we did something besides ‘Party at Xandra’s.’ Karaoke?”
“I have a karaoke machine!” Emily screamed. “My sister got it for her engagement party and she and her fiancé didn’t want it, so it’s at our house!”
“American Idol party?” Anya said. “What’s better than getting drunk and butchering your favorite songs in front of all your classmates?”
“Nothing?” Grace said. “Well, pie. Pie is better. Cupcakes. Cake. Pizza. Those little puff pastries, I forget what they’re called. Doritos…”
Confessions of a Hater Page 22
