“You are the loudest person,” he said to me, from across the circle, as I wailed at the bondfire, the final night of camp, the second or third sentence he ever said to me, after 4 weeks, for 6 years, summing me up: “You talk loud, you laugh loud, and apparently, you cry the loudest, too,” at 15, I was a virgin.
He was right.
I went on a date. He was remarkably fine, but as he spoke, I just kept picturing his face being sculpted out of play dough or clay, droopy and puffy in some spots, with sharp, knife-defined edges in others
I split my hymen at 13 having phone sex with a lipgloss. Nobody knows that. I paused at the sight of the fresh, red blood, knowing what it represented, knowing what I lost. Embarrassed, I tried to go on talking, to not let on to what had happened, to how I’d changed, undesirably. I stared at the skinny long, tube: a L’Oréal in a brownish pink shade I didn’t like, with a thick, gold rib where the cap met the tube. It wasn’t the first time I’d used it.
I am gaga for authority figures
It feels good to wish you happiness
I feel you push it right back to me
Like ping pong
Or a trampoline
Or the resistance of my mattress when I press against it
When I wish you happiness, I know you wish it for me, too
As you wander the world, looking for things to impress an artsy peace core chick,
Pause for a Melissa thing or two
Take a minute and miss me
I’m here, too
He used hand lotion for lube, and I got an infection.
Every boy loves Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind. I’ve given so many blow jobs to that movie.