“Why are you crying? I’m sorry, did I say something?” he said.
I don’t say anything. No way. No more saying what’s really going on inside me ever again. But if I was the type of person who I thought I wanted to be, the type who said what they really thought—And I’m not! And I never want to be this person again!—but if I was, I’d say shit like this:
So why am I crying, Benedict? Why? Do you want to know why I’m crying for the first time since I was probably nine years old? Because I feel alive when I’m near you, the real me feels alive, and that’s terrifying but in a great, beautiful way. And feeling alive makes me like myself and liking myself is something I never do with anyone else and so liking myself liking you makes me love you even though we’re both clearly insane.
* * *
But, like I said, I’m not saying that. No way. In fact, I’m never even thinking it again. I like being silent. I’m never going to complain about being silent again. “Pen, are you hurt? Is something hurt? Why are you crying?” he asked again.
“I need to go back to my cabin. Okay?”
“Yes, okay, of course.”
* * *
And because he’s socially awkward, or a gentleman, or both, he stood up, didn’t say a word, didn’t complain or pry, and helped us out of our little snow home and back into our skis.
As we pushed ahead, me in the lead this time because I didn’t want him looking back at me, neither of us said anything. It wasn’t awkward. I mean, it was unbearably awkward but less awkward than it would have been if either of us opened our mouths.
Then there was this sign that said WARMING HUT. I looked over and it was this tiny dark one-room wood cabin. It looked like the type of place you stepped inside and when you came back out … you came back out into a better world.
I stopped and looked at it. At this mystical warming hut. My imagination imagined all the things that can happen in a tiny hut in the middle of the woods. Then I turned back toward Benedict. He was so handsome, and such a dork, he was so interesting, and so impossible.
You know what I’m terrible at? Talking, telling the truth, being the real me. From now on, I’m only doing what I’m great at.
So, with my best, purest “fuck me” eyes ever, I said to Benedict, “Paul and I broke up.”
And then I faced forward, skied ahead, not stopping, not looking back, not thinking about love or feelings or being alive. You know, all the things I can’t control.
I could feel him chasing me, not knowing what to say to make me slow. The only noise was the glide of our skis and the swish of my pants. Everything—from the cold air, to my sweat, to our silence—felt erotic. Sensual. Foreplay. This on top of the insanity I was escaping. I couldn’t take it anymore. My body was flooding. So I squeezed as I skied and without making a sound, I came.
35
BENEDICT
I’m a virgin. I’ve never kissed a girl. I know I don’t really understand how normal people communicate with each other.
But I’m very smart. I know I’ve admitted I’m not smart in all ways, but I’m still smart in a lot of ways. I know how to research topics and study very hard. I could tell you more about ancient Rome or the American Revolution than any other teenage boy. And I, obviously, wasn’t alive back then.
Thus, even though I’ve never had sex with a girl, I know a lot about it. I’ve read a lot. I’ve watched a lot of videos. When I say videos, there are some educational shows, but mostly I mean pornography. I’ve studied them. Yes, obviously, I then masturbated. I’m not a robot. I’m very human. I don’t talk about masturbating because, even though I’m socially awkward, I’m not that socially awkward.
So I’ve had, obviously, erections. In my penis. (Are there any other kinds?) This is very uncomfortable to talk about even inside my own mind.
(“You’re going nuts again!” Evil Benny said. No, I’m not, I’m just embarrassed to consciously think about these things. Very, very embarrassed.)
But even though I’ve had many erections at home, in my bedroom while I masturbated, and some uncontrolled ones when I woke in the morning or even at random times during school mostly due to how my penis had positioned itself in my pants, I don’t believe I’ve ever had an erection like the one I had right now.
The one caused by Penelope looking at me with that madness in her eyes. That madness I had seen in school before many times. But now this madness was focused directly on me. It wasn’t madness, was it? No, it was … primal, and by “primal” I mean biological, not diluted by intellect or even emotions. Just … lust? I’m not sure. I’ve never felt lust before. I don’t think I have. I’ve liked girls before, but I’ve only liked them with my mind before. Not with my penis. This sounds ridiculous. But right at this moment, my penis was so hard—that’s the slang term for erection—that I thought it would drain the blood from the rest of my body and I would pass out.
In addition, as Penelope gave me this gaze of biological lust, she said, “Paul and I broke up.” My brain, even though it almost always translates things literally, instead translated her words from “I broke up with my boyfriend” to “I want to have sex with you in that warming hut.” And because I have seen lots of videos of people having sex, I then pictured Penelope and me having sex in that warming hut.
This is strange to say, but I’ve never pictured having sex with a girl my own age before. Only the porn actresses in the videos. It was easier because I had seen those girls naked. It’s much harder to imagine girls my age naked. I’ve thought about impressing high school girls with how smart I am, pictured them telling me how I am the best person they have ever met, but I’ve never had sexual thoughts about them. Normal teenagers must think about sex with their classmates all the time. I’ve read they do. But I never had, so I didn’t know how true that could be. It just seemed like a big waste of my time to imagine something that wasn’t logically going to happen. But Penelope, with her eyes and her words, had made my brain allow for the logical conclusion that I could, possibly, have sex with her in that warming hut.
But then she skied away. I think Evil Benny had some negative things to say, but do you know who’s even louder than Evil Benny? My erect penis. It said, “CHASE HER DOWN, BENEDICT! CHASE HER DOWN AND MAKE HER LOOK AT YOU WITH THOSE EYES AGAIN!”
So I skied after her, but she was, somehow, the best skier ever now. My brain hurt because it couldn’t think of something to say. My chest hurt because it wanted her to talk to me. And, above all, my penis hurt because it had so much blood inside it. That’s what happens to make it erect. The blood. Sounds very illogical when you think about it that way. Why did nature design us to need a rush of blood to our genitals in order to create babies? It seems very random to me. But it’s true. And my ski pants were tight and that made it hurt even more every time I moved my legs to chase her. Not that I would ever stop chasing her, no matter how much it hurt, because … I’m not sure. Maybe it’s lust that would make me never stop. Yes, I think so. I’ve never experienced it before, but I think that’s what it must be. Lust. I’ve never kissed a girl, or had sex, or anything, obviously, but I wanted to do all those things with Pen no matter how much pain or torture I had to endure to make it happen.
When we got back to the cabins, she stopped at hers, unsnapped her shoes from her skis, and yelled, “I’ll turn my stuff in later. I’ll see you at dinner, Benedict!” without turning to me. She ran inside cabin 13 and closed the door behind her.
* * *
So, as I said, I’ve studied sex in books. Watched a great deal of sex online. I’ve masturbated a very healthy amount, even for a teenage boy, I believe. But … ummm … I’m not sure. I’m not sure how to process what I’m feeling. I’m standing outside her cabin; I can’t even see her anymore, but my penis refuses to calm even the slightest bit. I can’t move, neither toward my cabin nor toward hers. I can only stand here thinking about Penelope in that warming hut. Thinking about kissing her. Thinking about taking off her clothes. Thinking about her takin
g off my clothes. Thinking about her touching my penis. Thinking about touching her boobs. Her vagina …
… I’ll be honest. The vagina scares me. No matter how many pictures or videos or diagrams I have looked at, it never stops being mysterious and intimidating …
… but being afraid of her vagina doesn’t make me stop thinking about having sex. No, in fact, I think about it more and more.
I’ve had a lot of thoughts in my life, some thoughts I believed to be quite brilliant even, but I’ve never liked any thought nearly as much as I liked the thought of having sex with Penelope.
36
Penelope
Benedict just stood there outside my cabin for, I don’t know, for a long time. My mom, who had been asleep on the couch, woke with her usual freak-out when I ran inside. (“Where were you!” That sort of crap.) But then she noticed Benedict, so she stared out the window at him even though I told her to stop. I mean, I was staring too, but I was staring from behind a corner so he couldn’t see me.
“What’s he doing?” she screeched. “He looks possessed!”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Is he mad at you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you say, Penelope!”
“Nothing.”
“What did you do to him, then?!”
“Nothing, Mom, nothing!” Which was a lie. I know, okay. I couldn’t take my mom anymore, so I went into my room and locked the door. I still pulled back the curtains so I could keep watching him watch the cabin. He looked like an animal again, like he did at dinner last night, except this time I could almost read the thoughts going through his head. I knew he was thinking about having sex with me. I felt like a goddess. Like the goddess of sex. I had wielded my power, and this mortal man had chased me through snow and trees and now was left transfixed outside my door, waiting for me to reappear. This is so stupid to think, but I’m thinking it and I’m loving how powerful I feel and I’m turned on again except I don’t want to masturbate. I mean, I do, but I’m not going to. I’m going to keep wielding my power.
Even after Benedict finally shuffled away back to his cabin, I knew I’d hold out because the more my want for him builds, the harder I’ll work to make him want me.
37
BENEDICT
There was no internet at our cabin. I have never masturbated without pornography, but my penis told me if I didn’t masturbate I probably would die. This is not true. I’m trying to say things that make me laugh at myself, but really I just am trying to not think about Penelope, which only makes me think about her more.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I said the moment I walked inside. My mom and sister were sitting feet to feet on the couch, reading books in front of the fire.
“Aren’t you going to tell us how your date went?” my mom asked.
“IT WASN’T A DATE, MOM!” I don’t know why I yelled. My penis is making me very illogical. I turned back at the bathroom door, calmed myself as best I could, and said, “I’m sorry for yelling. I just am … very sweaty and … need to shower.”
* * *
Once inside the bathroom, I stripped my clothes and grabbed Elizabeth’s face lotion from the sink counter. It’s not particularly ideal that I had to use my younger sister’s lotion, but mine was at home in my lower desk drawer and this was an emergency and emergencies require compromises.
Obviously people have masturbated for thousands of years without pornography, but now that it was so available on the internet, I just assumed no one ever masturbated without it anymore and never would again. But, as stated, this was an emergency.
Since I had been imagining having sex with Penelope in the warming hut, I started concentrating on that scenario as I, ummm … I’m not sure how much detail is appropriate here.
I suppose there’s no point in pretending I’m not doing what I’m doing, so I’ll just be frank. I was using my right hand to stroke my penis while my left hand pressed against the wall of the very small shower to steady myself because my legs didn’t feel very sturdy and I had never masturbated standing up before. Much easier to be sitting at my desk. Maybe because of this, it was taking longer than I thought it would. (I was going to use all my sister’s lotion.) Considering the long buildup and the sensation that my entire body was primed to combust, I just assumed this would be a rather quick operation.
Or, perhaps, I was enjoying it too much. That’s possible. I really liked thinking about Penelope and touching my penis at the same time. My growing awareness of what normal people say makes me feel ridiculous for stating such a thing, but I can’t help but acknowledge facts sometimes and this was very much a fact.
At first, I enjoyed trying to picture what Penelope’s body might look like naked, trying to match her body size and type with girls I’ve seen in pornos. But then those girls’ faces would enter my brain and this wasn’t pleasurable at all. Not compared to envisioning Penelope’s face. So that’s what I did instead. I stopped trying to imagine her naked and just saw her face up close, like we were under the tree we crashed into. Her dark brown eyes, with their lust, with their madness. Her skin, which was pale and tan at the same time. This might be a metaphor. There’s, obviously, a maturity to Penelope, a sexual maturity. (Yes, I know she’s had sex with Paul, but I don’t want to think about that right now!) But there’s an innocence too, isn’t there? Those tears? They felt very innocent. I liked that Penelope had both innocence and experience. I think I have both too.
In my mind, my eyes kept looking at her scar. A week ago, I had never seen it up close. But this afternoon, I had seen it very close for a very long time and … I’m not sure. It didn’t seem ugly at all anymore. In fact, it felt like the opposite of ugly. It felt exotic, like the defining brushstroke in a beautiful painting.
Obviously my thoughts make no sense. Obviously having this degree of erection for this length of time has made me the opposite of logical. But I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop thinking all these things about Penelope, imagining her eyes, and her skin, and her scar.
Until I orgasmed. In keeping with being honest, I orgasmed a lot. Despite all the disadvantages of doing it in the shower, cleanup was very easy.
* * *
By the time I finished the shower, the water was cold. My family would complain, they would ask why I took such a long time …
I moved quickly between the bathroom and my room, got dressed, and decided to avoid my parents and sister until dinner by rereading Forest Jackson’s If Only Girls Weren’t Everything I Wanted I’d Have Nothing to Do with Them, which was now my favorite novel ever. Theodore was so witty and eloquent around his love interest, Valerie! Me? I go mute around Penelope for long stretches and then jerk off for forty minutes in the shower. “Jerk off” is slang for masturbating. Theodore would never use the term “jerk off”! He probably doesn’t even masturbate!
* * *
You’re losing your mind again, Evil Benny said. He didn’t even laugh. In fact, Evil Benny seemed genuinely concerned.
* * *
My mom knocked on my door when it was time for dinner. When I walked into the living room of the cabin, my sister and mom were waiting by the door.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked.
“Getting dressed,” my mom said.
“He’s mad about the hot water,” my sister said. The way she said it, with that raised-eyebrow look of hers, I had this feeling she knew what I had been doing. If there is a worse feeling than knowing your younger sister knew you were masturbating in the shower, I’d prefer death over experiencing it.
My dad walked in a few seconds later. He didn’t look at me, just marched toward the door. He said, “Benedict, please don’t masturbate in the shower again at the resort. You can do that at home, if you must, but not here.”
My sister and mother, usually my defenders, couldn’t even look at me. My face was numb from the avalanche of shame. I used the term “avalanche” because I hoped a real one would fall on me that very sec
ond.
38
Penelope
When my mother saw what I was wearing to dinner, she wailed, “Penelope! Oh my, why are you wearing that! It’s twenty degrees outside!”
I didn’t say anything. Just stood there. I couldn’t really argue with her. Yeah, it would be nice if she didn’t act like I just chopped off a kitten’s head, but I get it. What I was wearing wasn’t appropriate at all: knee-high black leather boots with high heels, a black leather miniskirt that stopped uncomfortably close to my panty line, and a deep-necked white cashmere sweater. My boobs are kinda small, but I can make them look huge with the right bra and a tight-enough top. And tonight my bra was perfect and my sweater was as tight as tight gets.
“Really?” my mom said when she realized I wasn’t going to say anything back. “Not my problem, then! Go ahead and freeze! Go ahead and have everyone in the dining room think you’re a harlot! It’s your life to ruin! Not mine! I’m too hungry to argue anymore!” (My mom had been using her “I’m too hungry” thing forever.)
Not to be weird, but sometimes when my mom looked at me and screamed her crazy insults about how I dressed, I could see beyond it. Could see she might be jealous. When she was young, before marrying my dad, she was gorgeous. Just as thin as me, but taller, and far prettier. (She’s northern Italian, so her skin is very fair. We don’t even look related sometimes.) I don’t know when but she started getting fat, then she stopped caring what she wore, and now she barely leaves the house. So it hurts to have her yelling those things at me, but it also makes me think a part of her likes that I dress the way I do. Like I said, I know it’s weird. Never mind.
* * *
I had taken longer to get ready because, yes, I needed time to look good, but also because I wanted to make sure Benedict got to the lodge before us. Because I wanted him to see me enter.
So I let my mom walk ahead a bit as we entered the dining room, enough that when she turned toward our table, there was almost a straight, unobstructed line between me walking and Benedict sitting at his table.
The Nerdy and the Dirty Page 12