by Laura Hopper
He must sense my physical responses to him because he starts breathing deeper, pressing with more urgency. I feel his erection against my pelvis. It’s so hard and hot. The heat makes me sweat. My insides are on fire.
Is it possible that seven minutes ago I was helping with dishes in his mother’s kitchen and now I’m feeling her son’s boner practically tearing a hole in Sloan’s dress?
Chapter Twenty-Two
I drive home smiling. I cannot stop smiling. I wonder: If another driver pulled up next to me, what would he think is going on in my car or in my brain? This goofy grin is plastered across my face, and I can’t wipe it off no matter how hard I try. The car practically drives itself home, and I float into the house to find my mom sitting in the living room. She’s sitting straight up on the love seat, not watching television, not reading, not doing a crossword puzzle or playing Words with Friends. She’s just sitting and staring.
“Hi,” I say, cautiously awaiting bad news.
“Hello, Janey,” she says with a serious edge to her voice.
“What’s up?”
“I found your condoms,” she says. No lead-in. No Honey, we need to talk. Just I found your condoms. And something about the your is so piercing and accusatory. She could have said the condoms. She put a particular emphasis on the your, as if they were engraved with my initials, making them especially revolting.
Then it occurs to me that I put the condoms way down deep in my bathing-suit drawer, under a one-piece bathing suit I had to use for PE in middle school. I wonder what my mom was doing looking through that drawer. Was she snooping? What was she hoping to find?
“Were you searching my room?”
“Let’s focus on the issue at hand, shall we?” she says.
I hate when parents do that. They deflect the part of the scenario where they might be guilty. They get so busy throwing their anger and disappointment around, but always find a way to bury the things they’ve done wrong. Don’t I deserve some privacy? Isn’t it my room? I’m a good, trustworthy kid, and I don’t think she should be snooping around in the depths of my drawers if I haven’t given her any reason to suspect I’m breaking any laws.
I guess that’s the point here. She did suspect something. She went looking for evidence that I was keeping secrets from her. I’m seventeen, and I’m falling crazy, madly in love with a boy. Am I a criminal for considering having sex with him? Was I supposed to ask her permission? I’m willing to bet my mom didn’t get anyone’s permission the first time she had sex. In effect, didn’t I do the right thing by taking the matter into my own hands to ensure I was protected from disease and pregnancy? I should be complimented for being so responsible. She should be singing my praises for my careful planning and forethought.
“I haven’t done anything,” I say.
“What do you mean by anything?” she asks.
“I haven’t had sex.”
“Good. You’ve known this guy ten minutes. Am I supposed to be proud of you for waiting this long?” Her voice registers her disgust.
“Mom, why are you freaking out?”
“Why am I freaking out? Maybe because my daughter has a couple of dates and seems to be in a big hurry to give her virginity away. I don’t think you’re ready. You’ve never even dated before. How do you know this is the right guy?”
“It’s not easy to talk to you when you’re so angry and irrational,” I say.
Mom seems to actually listen to my plea. She takes a deep breath. One thing my mom has always been good at is admitting when she’s wrong. Whenever she’s raised her voice to me, which has not been often at all, she’s always apologized.
“I’m just worried about you. This is all new territory. For both of us. I’m not sure how to navigate it,” she explains.
“I’m sorry you’re worried. I’m not going to rush into anything. You’ve always trusted me, and I haven’t changed. I’m still the same girl who has earned your trust,” I say.
“Maybe you haven’t had sex yet, but clearly you’re thinking about it,” she says, searching for answers. “So you’re not that far off.”
I don’t know what she wants to hear. Does she expect me to tell her exactly how far we’ve gone? Forget it. Sure, she and I have a close relationship, but she’s still my mother, and I don’t think any mother really wants or needs to hear her daughter’s plans for her first time. “I’m not ready to have this conversation,” I say softly, trying not to offend her or get her back into her angry state.
“Then you’re not ready to do it,” she says in a quiet but firm voice.
“I don’t think those two things are connected,” I say, bracing myself for the fury.
“You’re wrong.”
“Just because I don’t want to discuss details with my mother means I’m too immature to have sex?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Sex brings an unexpected set of complications and risks to your life. You have to be able to acknowledge those factors and discuss them like an adult.”
“I know those things and I can discuss those things. Just . . .”
“Not with me?” she asks, sounding wounded.
“Correct.”
“I didn’t think we kept things from each other.”
“Mom, I think you’re being a little unrealistic.”
“Would you talk about it with your father?” There it is. The first time she said your father, instead of Dad. I’ve always noticed that married people talk to their kids about each other using Mom or Mommy and Dad or Daddy, which has a warm, inclusive meaning, as though they all share one another. Your father implies that he’s only mine, that his role as father no longer includes her.
I probably wouldn’t talk about my readiness for sex with my dad. But I really don’t think he would’ve attacked me this way if he had he found the condoms. Although he would also never go digging though my drawers in search of signs that I’ve been a bad girl. I really miss my dad right now. If nothing else, he would provide perspective and be able to talk my mom out of her hysteria. He could always put a gentle hand on her shoulder when she got anxious or worked up, and it seemed to have the magical power to calm her and restore sanity. My mother watches me process my thoughts as if she can read my mind.
“Would you?” she presses.
“I don’t know, but I wish he were here.”
My mom closes her eyes and swallows audibly, suggesting she’s trying to keep the tears from flowing. She stands up and walks into her room. She doesn’t stomp or huff or slam the door. But I do hear the gentle click of her bedroom door being closed, signifying a deep chasm between us. I feel so alone. My house is quiet and sad. The house that used to be inhabited by a family is now a place where my mom refers to the man who used to be her soul mate as your father and I sit alone in the living room wishing I could fix this mess.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Valentine’s Day is almost here. I’ve never had a boyfriend on Valentine’s Day, and I’ve always thought Valentine’s Day was reserved for those doting couples that I would never be half of. Unlike some girls, I never really cared. Now that it’s almost here, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Naturally, I ask my friends.
“Valentine’s Day is for girls. He is supposed to make the grand gesture. You’re supposed to do nothing except have him treat you like a queen,” Sloan offers.
“That is the worst advice ever,” I say.
“It’s true,” she protests.
“It’s kinda true,” Danielle chimes in as we sit outside the cafeteria during a break between classes. “You do something sweet and thoughtful, he does jewelry.”
“Jewelry? Are you crazy?” I ask in disbelief. “We’ve been dating for six weeks. We haven’t even had sex. Why would he get me jewelry?”
Sloan shakes her head as if she’s baffled by my ignorance. “He gets you jewelry so you’ll want to have sex with him.” Danielle laughs in what appears to be agreement.
“Have you met me?” I ask. “That’s not ho
w I operate.”
“Just do something simple and nice, and let him take care of the rest,” Danielle says. “Has he asked you out for Valentine’s Day?”
“Yes. His parents are going to be out of town, and we’re going to hang out at his house.”
“Oh, that’s huge!” squeaks Sloan. “Do you think it’s gonna happen?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m ready,” I say.
“Bring the condoms just in case,” advises Danielle.
“Yeah,” agrees Sloan. “That jewelry might be very expensive.”
“E.B.!” I yell as I throw the rest of my granola bar at her.
The day before Valentine’s Day, I’m in the kitchen making two dozen red velvet cupcakes for Luke’s Valentine’s Day gift. I remember from dinner at his house that red velvet is his favorite. A gift of baked goods adheres to Danielle’s advice in that it’s thoughtful, and frankly I just couldn’t think of anything else. Although I do wonder what he’s going to do with twenty-four cupcakes . . .
I happen to love baking. My mom and I always baked when I was little. My favorite was white cake out of the box with white icing made from powdered sugar, butter, and vanilla extract.
I hear my mom’s car in the driveway. Things have been a little frosty between us since she found the condoms. Strangely, she didn’t confiscate them. After our fight, I checked my drawer and was surprised to see that they were right where I left them. Right where she uncovered them. I guess I could have taken them out and left them on my desk or the kitchen counter in plain view. After all, both people who live in this house know the condoms are staying here with us. But it seems appropriate to leave them buried, as if they’re still worthy of a secret.
Mom comes into the kitchen. “Whatcha making?”
“Red velvet cupcakes.”
“Nice. For Luke?”
“Yes, for Valentine’s Day.”
“Perfect gift,” she says. “Need any help?”
“No, I think I’ve got it,” I say.
She gives me a little kiss on the forehead and leaves the kitchen. Two seconds later, she’s back.
“I hate this,” she says. “I love you. Here you are, going through a very important time in your life, and I want you to know that I’m on your side.”
“Thanks, Mom. I love you too.”
“I also want you to know that I trust you. I know you’re a good kid with a good head on your shoulders, and I believe you’ll do what’s right for you.”
“Oh, Mommy,” I say, putting down the sifter. “That means so much to me.” I give my mom a hug. A big, strong, long-overdue hug. We hug for a while, neither of us wanting to be the first to let go.
“Use an ice cream scooper,” she whispers in my ear.
I pull away. “What?” I ask. Is my mother giving me some kinky sex tip?
“To fill the cupcake liners. If you use an ice cream scooper, all the cupcakes will be the same size.” Phew.
Luke’s parents are spending a long weekend in Massachusetts and Luke has the house to himself. When I asked him who was staying with him, he practically laughed in my face.
“I’m eighteen,” he reminded me.
“I know. But you’re still a kid,” I said. I just couldn’t imagine being left in the house alone for four days. What if there was a fire or a gas leak or an earthquake?
“I’m pretty sure I’ll be just fine, but thanks for worrying about me. If you want to sleep over and keep me safe, you’re more than welcome,” he says.
“Yeah, right. I’m sure that would go over big with my mom,” I said.
I’ve been counting the minutes until our Valentine’s Day dinner. I told him I had dessert covered, so he said he’d take care of the main course. I debated whether to bring a condom. Sloan said if I have it, I’m more likely to use it, and if I don’t bring it, there’s a better chance I won’t agree to have sex with him. She says if she really doesn’t want to go too far with a guy, but is worried she might be tempted, she won’t shave down there—that way she knows she won’t let him take her pants off. Good policy, I suppose. But, in the end, I put a condom in my purse.
I walk up to his house holding two large trays of the red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting. My mom’s ice cream scooper trick worked perfectly. She also picked up red sugar sprinkles to dust over the icing, making them look extra special and sort of professional.
Luke opens the door looking particularly gorgeous and irresistible. His hair is still a little wet, giving me an instant mental image of him in a recent shower. I haven’t even stepped into his foyer and I’m already picturing him naked. My body immediately goes weak and gooey. He leans in to kiss me and I smell his shampoo and his soap and his minty breath. I love that he got ready for me.
“Red velvet?” he asks excitedly as we walk to his kitchen and I place the trays on the center island.
“Yup!” I say.
“You remembered,” he says.
“Of course,” I say. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Please don’t make me wait,” he says, reaching for one of the cupcakes.
“Go for it,” I say, honored that my cupcakes look so good that he feels compelled try them immediately.
He removes a cupcake from the corner of the tray and takes a giant bite. He moans exaggeratedly with great pleasure. He has a huge dollop of cream cheese frosting right in the center of his upper lip. There’s no way he can’t feel it. I watch him with a big smile on my face, wondering whether he’s going to wipe that frosting off or lick it. For now, he does nothing except shove the rest of the cupcake into his mouth, leaving even more frosting on his face.
I watch him chew and swallow with his eyes closed, as if he’s in complete ecstasy. Finally, he opens his eyes.
“Incredible,” he says. I’m staring at his frosting-covered face, trying not to laugh.
“What?” he asks, feigning ignorance. I continue to stare. “What?” he asks again. “Do I have something on my face?”
I nod.
“Come lick it off,” he says, pulling me into his arms and kissing me while deliberately transferring the frosting from his face onto mine. Our tongues intertwine, and we lick the inside and outside of each other’s mouths. “The only thing that tastes better than your cupcake is you,” he says.
He lifts me up and sits me on the island, his lips still on mine. He stands between my legs, leaning against me. I take hold of his hands and finger the leather strap around his wrist. His lips leave my mouth and work their way down my neck. My head falls back in sheer bliss as he finds his way to my chest. Somehow he simultaneously unbuttons my shirt and kisses my chest. I wonder where he picked up these advanced skills. Before I know it, my shirt is off and I’m sitting on his mother’s kitchen island in my leggings and bra.
“Is it okay with you if we have dinner later?” he asks, a little breathless.
“Sure,” I say.
He helps me off the island and guides me into his backyard. We walk through French doors to a covered patio. On the left is a big grassy lawn and to the right is a long rectangular pool joined at the back by a hot tub that is radiating steam as if it’s welcoming us into its bubbly water.
“Want to go in the hot tub?” he asks.
“I didn’t bring a bathing suit,” I say. The words sound silly and naive and I know it.
“That’s okay,” he says. “I didn’t either.” He unbuttons his jeans, slides them off his hips, and lets them fall to the brick patio. He then whips his shirt over his head and drops it on top of his crumpled jeans. He stands there in his boxer briefs, a huge erection poking at the cotton, begging to be released. I look at his beautiful body, marveling at his ability to stand there, looking at me, without the slightest hint of self-consciousness. “You’re overdressed,” he says.
I tuck my fingertips into the waistband of my leggings and slowly push them down the length of my legs. He watches me, his eyes moving from my eyes to my body, which is gradually revealing itself
to him. He turns me around gently, then unhooks my bra and lets it fall next to all the other discarded clothing. We’ve been in this position before, both in our underwear, but I know it’s not stopping here tonight. He takes my hand and leads me over to the hot tub. The jets are already on, making me realize he has a plan in mind and in place. I do love a man with a plan.
He tucks a fingertip into my underwear at one hip and gently strokes my skin inside the waistband across my belly to the other hip.
“I want to take these off. Is that okay?” he asks quietly, carefully.
“Yes.” The word is barely audible, a cautious whisper.
“Was that a yes?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, turning up volume slightly.
With both hands, he slides my lacy black underwear down my legs. As if he knows it wouldn’t be fair for only one of us to be naked, he takes his own underwear off immediately. There we are, totally naked. Am I supposed to look at his penis? Touch it? I glance at it fleetingly and find that it looks exactly how it’s supposed to look. I look back up at him and catch his stare.
My instincts are to close my eyes really tight and jump into the pool to submerge my nudity under the darkness of the water, but Luke grabs my hands and takes a long, adoring look at my body.
“Perfection,” he whispers.
Just weeks ago, I could barely look at myself in the mirror in shorts and a T-shirt without feeling a pang of disappointment at the perceived mediocrity that stared back at me. I always saw myself as so far beneath the category of pretty, feminine, or sexy, let alone perfect. And here I am, completely naked, and the most handsome guy I know seems to be in awe of what he sees. How is it that I never saw myself the way he sees me? Why is it that I needed him to open that door for me? I don’t want to be the kind of girl who needs validation from boys. I don’t want to believe I’m beautiful just because he tells me it’s true. However, I am grateful to him for giving me the tools to shed my self-doubt. Because of Luke, I believe that I don’t need to look like the leggy, curvy girls in the locker room to feel attractive. I allow him to stare at me, and it makes me feel positively sexy.