by Lena Fox
Calm down. It’s just sex. Everybody does it. I mean, I knew about sex. Who didn’t?
Theoretically, anyway. Everything I knew was from television, or movies, sex ed lessons, or stories from other kids. Even before high school, everyone was talking about it. None of us were doing it, not that I knew of, but there were plenty of whispers about it. Back then I thought a blowjob was something to do with blowing on someone. I mean, the whole word implied blowing, when it was more about the opposite—sucking. Why be so pointlessly confusing? Not that I really knew exactly how to do it. What if I need to know by tonight? What if Blake expects that to be part of the sex?
The oatmeal had gone cold. I shoved it aside, staring down into my coffee cup as if it had all the answers in the world. Blake knew I was a virgin but he didn’t know just how much of one. Would he be gentle with me? Would it hurt? I started wondering how big he was in the pants region. Crap. Maybe I should have hooked up with someone of smaller stature. Because he sure was big everywhere else. Sooo … biiig … My vision glazed over as I thought of his body.
Feeling desperately unprepared, I rushed into my bedroom, closed the door tightly, and opened my laptop. YouTube provided me with a wealth of information from some perky pro-sex feminist vlogger who went to great lengths to explain every aspect of sex and how women shouldn’t feel ashamed for wanting it. I suddenly realized how much I had been slut-shaming myself for making The List. Like wanting those things was as much self-punishment as it was about new experiences and experiencing pleasure, about using this body before it was gone. But between my research and Blake, I was starting to get excited by what was ahead.
Feeling all empowered, I ventured into parts of the internet I’d never been tempted by before. After a few searches, I came across some websites with free videos and managed to end up in one for people who really enjoy fellatio. I stared at it, fascinated, as clip after clip of dicks and lips flashed before my eyes.
Every few seconds I would get paranoid, and become positive that Julie had come home, and I would turn the speaker volume back down to silent even though I had my headphones on. Once or twice, I even got up and went to see if she was back, but she wasn’t.
I kept taking mental notes, trying to treat it purely as research, but soon found I was getting really turned on. I started imagining myself with Blake, how his mouth had felt on my breast, and whether the rest of sex would feel that good. Or better. I angled my hips so my crotch pressed firmly into the seat below me. I was getting so turned on I could barely stand the wait until tonight.
I’d never felt like this. Sex hadn’t really interested me or been on my mind for the last few years. I’d shut those parts of my body down, too scared to even try for a relationship, too hateful of my own body. These feelings though, this was just the awakening I yearned for when I wrote The List. I licked my lips. Now seemed as good a time as any for some preparatory self-exploration. A brief glance to triple-check again that my door was closed, and I slipped my fingertips down through the elastic band of my pajama pants.
Bang, bang, bang.
Someone pounded on the front door. I jerked my hand back out again. Panic filled me and I slammed the laptop closed. Too paranoid to leave it there in case someone was to open it and find the webpage still there, I flung the laptop under my bed.
“Georgina?”
The last person I wanted to see right now—my dad.
“Just a minute!” I shed my pajamas, grabbed jeans, and yanked them on, ran a brush through my hair, and tugged a clean shirt on over my head. I opened the door, forcing a smile onto my face that quickly became a real one.
I loved my dad. He was a darker-skinned man with a head filled with curly black hair, and bushy eyebrows like a Muppet. Dad was an inch shorter than I was—although he’d say it was the other way around—and he had grown cuddly and round from the amazing food he cooked.
Apart from his lovely olive skin, I think I inherited most of my genes from Dad, but he always told me I looked just like my mom. She had been dead for so long I couldn’t really remember what she looked like, but from the photos of her, I didn’t see it. In those photos she looked so glamorous, exotic and gorgeous. Of course, we only kept photos of her from before her cancer treatments. Sometimes Dad looked at me and smiled, and I knew he was thinking about her.
Dad had never forgotten her, or remarried. But he did date sometimes. He thought I didn’t know about that, though.
“Hi, Dad.” I hugged him, and he hugged me back. He smelled like roasted garlic and oregano.
“How’s the restaurant?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Packed. Got a TV network sniffing around, trying to get me to do some reality cooking show.”
“Again? I thought you’d scared the TV execs off for good last time,” I said, smiling.
He chuckled. “That was before being an asshole on television was the in thing. Is that fresh coffee I smell?”
I stood to one side so he could come in. “I made some about an hour ago. But I could whip up a fresh pot if you want some.”
“Thanks, love.”
“Tell me more about this show they want you to do,” I said, trying to keep the focus on him.
My attempt was futile. Dad shook his head and grumbled under his thick moustache, “I came to talk to you about school.”
My heart dropped and I turned away, pretending to be busy making a fresh pot of coffee. “What about it?”
“You haven’t been going.”
“How do you know that?” I asked. “I mean, maybe, sure, I missed a class or two, but I can always catch up.”
“Not when you’re on a scholarship you can’t. And I know it’s been more than a couple. Sherrie in the admissions office called me. You’ve missed classes for nearly a week. You’re about to get placed on probation.”
“It’s really not that bad. Sherrie probably only rang because she’s trying to hit on you. She’s always had her eye on you. You really don’t have to worry about me.” Fussing with the percolator, I dropped the entire contents of old coffee grounds on the floor and cursed.
Dad came and stood next to me, putting his hands on mine, stilling them. “Is there something wrong, honey?”
Yes, everything. “Nothing. I just had a cold and got a bit overwhelmed.” There—simple but convincing, and not too far from the truth.
“You know you can talk to me.”
“I know.” Tears welled up, but I held them back. Click. Armor on.
“I want you to come over tomorrow for Sunday dinner. No excuses, do you hear me?”
Sunday dinner was our tradition. I had blown it off last week. Looking at him, I could see how worried he was. If there was a list anywhere that had the things that I did not want to do on it, upsetting Dad was at the top of it. But I knew the moment was coming when I broke his heart forever.
“No excuses,” I said, and he gave me another warm hug.
Dad helped me clean up the coffee, then left. I stood there in the middle of my kitchen, my arms wrapped around my middle, and tried not to cry.
I failed.
Chapter Seven
Blake
I put the champagne down and picked up the six-pack of beer for the fifth time. The motherly woman with a super-model hairstyle at the bottle shop counter watched me, clearly amused.
Just buy something. It doesn’t matter.
I kept telling myself that, but clearly it did matter or I wouldn’t still be here.
This was going to be Georgina’s first time. If she was just some other girl, just having normal, done-it-before sex, this would have been a lot easier. It was a lot easier. I knew from experience. But first times should be … something. Good, memorable—not a complete disaster, like most were in reality. Georgina was coming late to the party, and given the situation, she had a chance at a good one. I had the chance to give her a good first time. That seemed worth a little effort.
But I didn’t want things to seem too serious, and maybe champagn
e was too serious. I didn’t want to seem too cheap or uncaring, and maybe the beer would give that impression. Wine introduced way too many questions: white, red, rosé, sparkling, dessert? Would craft beer be a good in-between or just seem too wanky? Yep, definitely overthinking this.
I went and stared at the wall of wine bottles for a while anyway, avoiding the issue. The bottle shop smelled of cardboard cartons and stale alcohol. I wondered how many bottles had been dropped and smashed on this floor in the past. I imagined red wine seeped down between the floorboards, the kind of stain that would never leave. Like the stain of loss on a heart.
Life was short. Cruel. Unexpectedly tragic. Or expectedly tragic. It was even worse when the tragedy was your fault. When you saw it coming, and didn’t stop it happening.
The champagne it is.
No point overthinking it. Always choose the option of most enjoyment for the here and now. My bank account was running low, and the next check of royalties wouldn’t be through for another month, but screw it. I had to live for the moment, or what was the point? The past was too painful to bear, and the future could easily be the same. Now was all that mattered.
I grabbed a mid-priced bottle of champagne and thumped it down on the counter. The woman clicked her huge, elaborately painted and bejeweled nails over it as she scanned it through. She eyed me, still amused. “Doing something special?”
Was I doing something special? Or someone special? Did it even matter? The future wasn’t in my mind at all. It went only as far as tonight and no more. One day at a time.
I tapped my credit card to pay and grabbed the brown-paper-bagged bottle. “Just getting laid.”
Chapter Eight
Georgina
“Hi,” I said, standing on Blake’s doorstep. I was cool, calm, confident, and hadn’t just rushed over here with my heart pounding so hard that I almost forgot how to drive. Nope, tonight I was List Georgina, and List Georgina was Brave Georgina.
“Hi,” he replied.
A moment of silence stretched out, then Blake stepped aside and ushered me in.
There was a bottle of champagne, two mismatched wineglasses, and a bouquet of roses on the coffee table. The lights were dimmed, and he had cleaned up.
“I understand the alcohol. Good call. But why the roses?”
“I know you said you didn’t want anything special, but I just thought this might help the whole … procedure.” Blake cringed and ran his hand through his hair. “We’ll take it easy on the alcohol. Just enough to calm nerves.”
“You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”
He chuckled softly. “Don’t think I’m not nervous, too. There’s a lot of pressure and expectation. I haven’t been someone’s first since I was sixteen. And also, there’s all of this hotness to deal with,” he said, gesturing to my body while biting his bottom lip. “I just want you to enjoy this. I don’t want to hurt you at all.”
“You know, the whole hymen-popping thing is a myth, really. Hymens don’t work that way.” What was I saying? Blake looked highly amused. “Shut up. I’ve just been reading up. Fine. Watching YouTube videos. Whatever.”
Blake looked even more amused. “Videos, hey?”
I flushed red all over. “So, alcohol?”
With a leering grin that made me giggle, Blake poured a drink for each of us. Pressing one glass into my hand, he clinked his own against it. “To first times.”
Blake wore a plain black T-shirt that fit tight against his body, and large, baggy jeans. I was already thinking ahead to if I was meant to undress him and how I was meant to do that, and what he looked like under those clothes. I’d seen the top half. I was nervously excited about the bottom half.
I downed my first glass of champagne in three huge gulps. It was good, and left a warm trail from my throat to my belly. Before I had time for it to absorb, Blake leaned in and kissed the last drip of champagne off my lips.
I kissed him back, and we stood there like that for minutes, exchanging slow, burning kisses that left me breathless and flushed. His fingers slid up my neck, caressing it and then my earlobes before moving up to my scalp. He tugged at the comb holding my hair and it tumbled down onto my shoulders. He brushed the strands away from my neck. His tongue flickered over my throat, resting on the point of my pulse.
I could feel it, my life, resting there against his flesh. His tongue withdrew and his full and sensual mouth laid a trail of butterfly-soft kisses from that pulse point to the valley between my breasts. Blake was practically kneeling before me with our height difference, and when he stood up again, he wrapped an arm around my legs and shoulders and scooped me up with him. He lifted me like I weighed nothing and carried me up the stairs to his bedroom.
Tiny points of light flickered around us. LED candles were spread across every flat surface. The room was tidy and the bed made, a handful of red rose petals thrown on the covers. On the nightstand sat a single condom. I smiled a little, grateful Blake had the insight to not put a whole box out there.
Blake laid me down on the bed, then knelt next to me, leaning across my body. The sheets weren’t satin, or white, but I was already so blown away by the effort he’d made. I couldn’t expect him to be a mind reader too. And I didn’t want him to be.
I had worn a halter dress without a bra, and he kissed the exposed flesh of my cleavage. Blake followed the line of the dress straps, then hesitated. “May I?”
I didn’t reply, just reached around and tugged the ties loose.
I lay still while he pulled my dress away, down over my legs. It made a whispering rustle as it dropped to the floor. I wished I hadn’t chosen a halter dress. Just one item of clothing gone and there I was in nothing but high heels and black lace panties. Blake still had so many clothes on. It seemed unfair. I brought my hands up and covered my nipples.
Blake’s hands still rested near my ankles, and he gently slipped my shoes off.
My glassful of champagne was kicking in, and everything got fuzzy. I felt like I should do something. Should I be taking off his clothes? Should I be helping him take off my clothes? Do I look okay without my clothes? I can’t believe I’m doing this. This wasn’t the first time I’d dreamt about. Our bodies, this room, our actions, it looked and felt the part, but it was just window dressing, fake. Is this a mistake? Then Blake kissed a soft spot on my thigh, and all doubts left me. It was all I could do to keep breathing.
He moved back up my body and grabbed both of my wrists, bringing my hands away from my breasts and forcing them down on the bed on either side of my head. He wasn’t rough, but he was so strong I knew if he wanted to be forceful with me, I’d be helpless. That thought scared me, but before I could react, Blake had let go, trailing his fingers along my arms and down my sides. His hands cupped my breasts, and his tongue and teeth played against my nipples until I arched my back, crying out as heat grew and spread between my legs.
Blake seemed to be moving slowly, caressing one part of my body at a time, but a fire rushed through me and I no longer wanted slow. I clutched the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it up his chest. He grabbed it as well, lifting it over his head.
His chest gleamed and rippled with muscle. He wasn’t sharply chiseled, just thick and strong. My eyes wanted to trace every single inch of him and they did. “Sooo … biiig …”
“Sorry?” he asked.
“Nothing!” I can’t believe I said that out loud.
A soft, grunting noise came from somewhere deep in Blake’s throat as he looked down at me, and his fingers slid between the waistband of my black silk panties and my skin. I gasped as his fingers tickled and stroked at the sensitive spot there, and a powerful feeling built inside me.
So that’s what the clitoris is all about. I’d felt around down there before—who hadn’t? But I’d never really succeeded in anything. I guess it turned out that bud needed a bit of love to blossom.
My panties slid down. I closed my eyes, allowing Blake to take them away from me. When they were gon
e, I pulled my legs together, scared of being so visible.
Blake slid his hands up my legs, easing them open again. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to do anything except relax. If you ever want to stop, just tell me.”
His fingertips reached the tops of my legs, the join between them, tickling against me. “I don’t want to stop,” I gasped.
Dipping his head, Blake’s lips grazed my navel, and then his tongue licked my most sensitive area. It created intense bursts of craving in me. I could feel him bring a hand close and then he slid one finger inside me. Inside me. It felt so strange, yet so good. I could feel it when he added another, stretching me softly. Preparing me. His tongue kept moving against my clitoris and I began to shake, my inner thighs quivering.
Blake slid his belt buckle free, and his baggy jeans dropped on the floor with a thud.
His manhood jutted out at an angle from his body, so hard. I took in every detail, amazed at how he looked, how his body responded to mine. The head was heavy and engorged, swollen to an angry red. He stroked it with one hand; the vein running along it throbbed. I could see it all in the low light of the candles, and I kept my eyes open as he knelt between my legs and unrolled the condom down his thick shaft.
He bent and kissed my neck, and whispered, “Are you ready?”
The lucid parts of my brain had melted away. My heart pounded, and my body throbbed. I looked up at his face, my sight hazed with pleasure. This was everything I wanted to be experiencing—the pleasure, the terror, and the pure, naked, powerful mess of life.
“I’m ready.”
He entered me slowly. I cried out, not from pain, but the intensity of the feeling. My back curled and my fingernails raked across the bed. He waited, forehead pressed into mine, panting, letting me adjust before pushing in farther.
The presence of him inside me, the pressure and heat as he eased in and out of me in slow, deliberate movements, could drive me insane. It was such a delicious violation, such intimate torment, I wanted to beg for him to stop, and scream for him to go faster all in the same breath. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out, my lips quivering. Blake stared at them, then pressed his mouth against mine, hot and hungry.
