by Lucy Cuthew
to
there?
Back in the hall,
I hand him a glass and
as it passes between us
it slips through our fingers
so blackcurrant squash
splatters our tops
and stains the carpet.
“Shit,” exclaims Benjamin.
“Shit,” I echo.
Then we both look down
at our wet tops
(and if his shorts
were clinging before,
now they are wet-look Lycra).
“This is my only rugby top.
I should give it a wash.”
“Then you should take it off,”
I say, giggling a little
at the words coming
out of my mouth.
“We both should,”
he says, lifting his top
over his head.
“OK.” I laugh.
My heart beats so hard
beneath my stained shirt
that I can see my skin trembling
as I undo the buttons.
“Should we go to your room?”
he says, looking around.
I shake my head.
I don’t want to move,
to break the moment.
“My parents won’t be
home for ages.”
Then we look at each other,
still smiling from laughing
but now we’re both blushing.
I think we both know
we’re about to go
there.
And just like Harriet
said it would be,
as we press
our hot chests
skin to skin,
body to body,
I find that I can
just be me.
Then our lips touch,
and we’re kissing
with tongues
and the breath from our lungs
mingles together and
enters the other.
This is so much more fun
than I thought it would be.
“I WANT TO BITE YOUR THIGHS”
I murmur.
Oh my God.
Did I say that?
Can I say that?
Can I even think that?
But
“OK,”
Benjamin says.
Then, “This is fun.”
HIS THIGHS
From a distance,
Benjamin’s thighs are statuesque,
the thighs of Michelangelo’s David,
sculpted perfection.
Yet now I feel them,
they’re bulge and flex,
heat and sweat,
as I
press my cheeks
against his flesh
and lick his skin,
which tastes
of him.
I touch my teeth to him,
and
bite
his
thighs.
GIGGLING
“Wow,” I say, giggling
as my whole body takes in
the hot wetness of his
bare chest skin.
“Shit,” says Benjamin,
giggling. “Are we allowed
to do this on a school day?”
“I’m OK with it
if you’re OK,” I say,
giggling.
Benjamin nods,
smiling.
“I’m definitely OK.”
I like this about him.
Despite the intensity
of what our hands are doing,
we’re both still giggling.
FUN
I expected my first time
getting serious like this
to be so serious.
But it’s so not.
In fact Benjamin and I are
still laughing,
gasping at the fun of
using nothing but our hands
and fingers
and our joined solar plexuses
to make each other come.
CRIME SCENE
We lie on the floor
of the hall
of my house,
panting
and laughing.
A smashed vase
and broken glass
and our discarded tops
decorate the wet carpet.
“That was fun,”
Benjamin says.
“It was,” I agree,
sitting up slightly
and gazing around.
“It looks like a crime scene.”
Benjamin props himself up too,
and looks at the mess
of flowers and clothes,
laughing,
then,
at the same moment,
we both glance down
at Benjamin’s hands
and see blood
on his fingers.
“Shit!” he says, getting up,
turning his hands over,
searching for a cut.
My stomach drops.
I touch the tips of my fingers
to my knickers
and from the sticky feeling
know what’s happened.
I cringe
and shrink
and desperately try and try to think
of a way to make this
situation go away.
Benjamin looks terrified.
“I don’t think I’m bleeding,”
he says.
“Are you OK?”
“Yes,” I say,
dying inside.
“I’m OK. I’ve just …
come on.”
I scrunch up my face.
Benjamin’s silent
and I glance at him,
and he looks
at me
blankly.
Oh my God.
I’m going to have to
explain this frankly.
“You know,
I came on…
I got my period.
It’s menstrual blood.”
WHY did my first time
saying menstrual blood
outside of biology
have to also be
the first time
anything remotely sexy
has ever happened to me?
“Oh!” he says slowly,
looking between his bloody
fingers and me.
“I see.”
IT’S ONLY BLOOD
Benjamin doesn’t move
and he doesn’t look at me.
“Are you OK?” he asks.
“Did I … hurt you?”
“No,” I say,
shaking my head.
“It was … good.”
“Are you sure?” he says,
still looking down at his fingers.
I don’t know
whether he’s talking
about hurting me
or satisfying me.
This is so embarrassing.
“I’m really OK,” I say.
“It’s just my period.”
“Phew,” he sighs, nodding
like he’s trying to catch up.
“I guess it’s only blood.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
“Totally. Only blood.”
I know it is only blood,
but no one else
usually sees your period.
“Ugh,” I groan. “I’m cringing.”
“It’s fine,” he says,
though it feels like he’s
trying to convince himself
as much as me.
“I’ve got a sister,
remember?”
Then he sniggers.
“Which in this context
makes me sound
like a massive weirdo.”
I laugh nervously.
“It’s OK. I know
<
br /> what you mean.”
“Phew.” He grins.
“I just mean …
I know about periods and stuff.
I don’t mind blood.
It’s biology.
I’m actually thinking
about doing medicine
at university.”
He finally looks up at me,
grinning widely.
“Massive weirdo alert,”
I say, grinning back.
Benjamin laughs
and then we’re both
giggling, when suddenly
the letter box clatters
and we both jump up,
scrambling from the floor,
diving for cover,
as nothing more
than a newspaper
lands in the hall.
We look from the paper,
to one another.
I’ve managed to grab
my dad’s high-vis cycling vest
to cover myself,
even though I’m only
half undressed.
But Benjamin has got
a Kim Kardashian selfie book,
with a massive picture of
her face and boobs,
over his crotch,
covering the wet patch
on his pants.
I snort as he
looks down
to see what he’s holding.
“Ergh!” he says. “Why do you
have this?!”
I cover my mouth,
laughing at the sight of him.
“Harriet gave it to me
for my birthday.
She thought I’d like it,
because it’s about
photography,
but I think she actually
wanted it for herself.”
“Now I really need
to wash my hands,” he says.
“The bathroom’s up there.”
He backs up the stairs,
with Kim Kardashian’s face
still held in place.
“I didn’t know you were
into photography.”
“I’m not,” I say. “Harriet is.
But we do take photos
of the moon and stars together.
I’m maybe more of the astronomer
and Harriet’s the photographer.
But we both love both.
I’ll show you if you like.”
AFTERNOON STARGAZING
We sit cross-legged
on my bedroom carpet,
his rugby shirt
under my hairdryer,
me fully dressed,
him wearing only a towel.
“This is a bit unfair,”
Benjamin says,
over the warmth
of the electric whirr.
He waves the hairdryer
at his shirt,
which I’m holding.
It is billowing,
rippling over my fingers,
releasing the smell of him.
I want to kiss him again.
I show him mine
and Harriet’s pictures
of the night sky,
collected on the account
she made where we post
anything good we take.
“They’re amazing,” he says.
“When do you do it?”
“Whenever it’s dark.
Sometimes we have sleepovers,
then get pastries
from the bakery
on the high street.
It opens at, like, 2 a.m.”
“You get up that early?”
“Hell, no,” I say.
“We stay awake that late!”
“Just doing astronomy?”
I laugh. “Actually,
mostly talking.”
“What do you talk about?”
“Everything.”
It used to be true.
“Everything?”
I nod. “Pretty much.”
I wish we weren’t
in this stupid fight.
Tonight, when Benjamin’s gone,
who am I going to tell
about this seminal boy thing?
“What about you?
Who do you talk to?
Jackson?”
“No way,” he scoffs.
“We’ve been mates
for ever, but I don’t tell him
anything.
I’m close to my sister.
But she’s in California now.
She’s a programmer.”
“California must be nice.”
“Yeah, for her,” he says.
“I really miss her.”
Benjamin looks around my room,
then says, “Nice curtains,”
nodding towards the window
and laughing again.
I look at my curtains
that I’ve had
since I was seven.
The illustrated stars,
planets and rockets
so familiar
I almost don’t see them.
I read the exclamations
scattered all over them,
like “Totally Cosmic!”
“Blast Off!” and
“Intergalactic!”
“Yeah,” I say. “I was a bit
obsessed with space.”
“And you took
all those photos
you just showed me
because you’re over it?”
“OK,” I say. “I’m still obsessed.
Anyway, I’m allowed to express
myself in my own room.”
“I said they’re nice.”
He grins. “In fact, they’re
totally cosmic.”
“Your top is ready.”
He turns off the hairdryer,
and I quickly sniff
his warm-shirt smell
before handing it back.
“So how does your space
obsession manifest
these days?” he asks,
pulling his top over his curly hair.
“Other than taking pictures.”
“I’ll show you.”
We lie beneath the skylight
and I open an app on my phone
that lets you stargaze
(or as close as you can to it)
in broad daylight.
I hold my phone,
heavy and cool in my hot hand,
panning across constellations,
then point to the waxing
gibbous moon.
“It’s on its way to being full.”
“How do you know?”
“Well…” I hesitate,
wondering how nerdy to be.
“In the northern hemisphere,
a waxing moon is illuminated
on the right.”
“That’s very cool.
So when will it be full?”
“Next week.
There’s actually a lunar eclipse
on Wednesday,
which means there’ll be
a blood moon.
It’ll be amazing.”
“Cool,” he says. “Could I see
the moon one night? Like,
through your telescope?”
“Sure. We always go up
on a full moon.
Unless it’s cloudy,
or the timing isn’t right.”
“But you can see the stars
any night, as long as it’s clear?”
“Yep.” I nod.
“Weather permitting.
But they’re always there.
They’re there now, you know.
We don’t think about it
because the sun is so bright,
but we’re also
bathing in starlight.”
“That is … intergalactic!”
He grins, but I k
now
he’s not being sarcastic.
He actually means it.
EYE GAZING
We gaze at the stars
a bit,
but actually,
it’s more interesting
gazing at each other.
I didn’t think there could be
any singular thing
more interesting than
the whole of the rest
of the universe.
Benjamin leans closer to me,
narrows his eyes and says,
“I can actually see
the strands of muscle
that make up the front
pigmented fibrovascular layer
of your iris.”
“Wow,” I say, my crush
on Benjamin extending.
“I didn’t think this was possible,
but are you an even bigger
nerd than me?”
“No way,” he says,
pointing over at the window.
“Exhibit A: curtains.”
CHICKEN THIGHS
Most nights Dad cooks
while I talk about my day
until Mum gets home,
but tonight I stay in my room,
waiting until I absolutely have to
go to the kitchen.
Just before seven,
Dad calls me.
“Frankie! Dinner is served!”
Mum puts her laptop bag down
and comes over to kiss me,
before sitting down opposite.
“How was school?” she asks
from far away
across the table
and the galaxy.
“Yes!” says Dad.
“Tell us everything.”
I am silent.
I can hardly tell them
“I walked home with a boy”
or
“I got my period on him”
and
I definitely cannot risk
letting slip
“I bit
that boy
(on his rugby-tight thighs)
(in our hallway)
(naked)
(and spilled blackcurrant squash)
(and had an orgasm)
(that’s when I got my period)
(on his fingers).”
So I just say,
“Good, thanks.”
“Did Mr B read your application?”
Mum asks, pushing her glasses up