18 years old
Brown, curly hair
Joe and I were everything to each other. We were attached at the hip: inseparable. We spent five nights a week together, perched on the countertops of his parents’ kitchen, warm summer air wafting through the open windows, whispering about poetry and politics. We were odd kids. We argued like siblings. He defended me to his friends, and I defended him to mine. We loved each other, and we told each other so often.
Joe was dating Allie, one of my best friends. I knew it was weird that he and I were so close, and I worked hard to make sure that we were never *too* close. Allie was sweet, she loved us both, and she never seemed to mind.
Joe asked me often, over the years, whether I’d ever had a crush on him. He was constantly worrying that he’d led me on, that I’d become too attached. I reassured him, over and over again: We were just friends.
We were just friends, but I was desperately, embarrassingly, irrevocably in love with Joe.
I tried to hide it. I drew lines in the sand of our relationship: no dinners with his family, no day trips. I kept secrets from him. I spent hours agonizing, worried that every one of our friends knew, but him. I tiptoed around my feelings day in and day out, but I couldn’t stay away. Like a moth to a flame, begging to get burned.
So it was summer, our last summer home before college. All of our friends spent every possible minute together, covered in some combination of sweat, sunscreen, and lake water from dawn ’til dusk. Joe and Allie were going to the same school; I was leaving the state, moving halfway across the country. Our time together was running out, and Joe and I both knew it. We wrote each other poems and letters, waxing eloquent about the people we were and the people we’d become, drawing out the days until I was scheduled to leave.
I knew my time was running out. I knew I could either make a move, and regret it the rest of my life, or not make a move, and regret it the rest of my life. Staring down the barrel of a lose-lose situation, I let the time tick by, until my very last night in town.
I was scheduled to leave early, four in the morning the next day. We had a party, ran around our suburban neighborhood like hooligans long into the night. It was raining, but it was warm. We were soaked through by the time we started saying goodbye. One by one, we hugged, exchanged well-wishes, said we’d see each other in a few months, until it was just me and Joe, standing in the dark at the end of the cul-de-sac, and I knew this was my last chance.
Our friends’ headlights faded into the distance as he hugged me. I’m small, 5’2″, and I’d always stretch to wrap my arms around his neck, hoping somehow maybe he’d feel my soft chest and tight waist pressed up against him, and think of me as something, anything, other than just some kind of kid sister. I pressed my cheek against his, felt the scratch of stubble, the warmth of skin. My nerves were on edge. I couldn’t breathe. He was saying something, “You’re going to have a great time. Don’t be scared.” If I could just get up the courage to kiss his cheek –
I turned my head, lightning-fast, and pressed my lips against his face. Just once, just a moment. He pulled back, smiled at me, and kissed my cheek, then pressed his forehead to mine. Damn him, he didn’t get it. I felt like I might cry, panic blossoming in my chest. Committed now, and with our noses almost touching, I pushed on and kissed him full on the mouth. Eyes closed, I held myself there, held my breath, held everything, fucking terrified to move. He stood stock still for what felt like forever, and I finally pulled away, dropping down off my tiptoes, staring at my bare toes against the wet pavement.
He used his hand to lift my chin, *fucking asshole*. “Hey, what was that?” he asked, eyes searching mine.
My face flaming red, my breath coming out in a rush, “It was nothing! I’m really sorry. I’m really sorry. I should go.”
He put his hands on my arms. “No, come on, we can’t just not talk about it.”
“I think we definitely can, and we will. It’s late, and I’m sorry. I really need to go home.” I pulled my shoulders away, milliseconds from crying. “Please just let me go home.”
His hands dropped to his sides. He was already tired. “I’m sorry. Maybe we can talk about it later.”
I nodded, already walking toward my car. “Later, yeah. Okay. Love you! Text me tomorrow, okay?”
He stood, rooted where I left him. “Love you. Yeah. Okay.”
I leapt into the car, turning off the overhead light so he couldn’t see me cry. *FuckfuckFUCK.* Stupid. It was so stupid. I could see him in the street, turning around, walking to his car. I sat, watching, waiting for him to leave so I could break down in peace. Then my phone rang.
I picked up, and tried to pretend some semblance of normalcy. “Hey, Joe, what’s up?”
There was a long pause. “Do you want to come over?”
I long-paused back. Thought about the pros and cons of hashing out my all-consuming love for him on the futon in his basement, versus spending the next three months obsessing over what he thought of me and whether I’d ever see him again. Like a moth to a flame, “Yeah, alright.”
“Cool. See you there.”
I watched his car pull away, waited a beat, then followed. The entire drive across town was torturous. Dark, empty, dimly lit streets. Lonely stoplights. My heart beating out of my chest, rehearsing what I’d say: *”I’m really tired; I’m just gonna miss you.” “It wasn’t supposed to be weird.” “I promise: I just see you as a friend.”*
I got out of my car, still barefoot, hair wet. Opened the back door to his house, quietly slid it shut. Tiptoed through the house and down the stairs to the basement, where the light was on. He was standing, back to me, arms crossed.
“Hey.” I said, feigning innocence, and flopped down onto the futon, curled up against the armrest, awaiting judgement.
He turned. “Alright, hey.” He came and sat in the corner opposite me, then met me with some devastating eye contact.
I couldn’t handle the eye contact. “I’m really sorry.” I said again, and laughed, trying to play the thing off. “I was just really tired. I’m gonna miss you. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” I grinned, trying to convince him I meant it. *Please believe me, please, please believe me.*
He squinted, gave me a half smile. “It’s alright. You surprised me, is all. It’s okay. You don’t need to be sorry.” He looked away, then smiled brightly. “You know I love you, right?”
I smiled and nodded enthusiastically. “Right!”
“Good.” He sighed and relaxed, stretched out. His arm on the back of the futon. “Will you come over here, then?”
“Okay.” I scootched closer, facing him, my knees between us.
His arm around my shoulders, he leaned over, and, softly, kissed my cheek. My eyes fluttered closed for just a hairbreadth of a second. He was warm. He smelled like rain, and sweat, and Joe. I smiled as warmly as I could as he pulled away. *Just friends.* But he was looking at me, still leaning in, still leaning forward. Just inches from my face. And then he kissed me. The warmth of his lips just barely pressed against mine, not moving, not pulling away. I gasped (I couldn’t help it) and froze, not daring to move, not daring to breathe, just sitting there, under the feather-light weight of it. He pulled back, just a little, and looked at me, squinting, judging my reaction. I must have looked completely terrified, because he seemed to find it a little funny, and moved his hand to hold my face. “Breathe.” He smiled, his thumb sliding across my cheek, then he kissed me again.
That broke the spell. I kissed him back, pressing myself into him, sliding my arm around his neck, pulling him closer. His face was rough, his skin was soft, his chest was hard and solid. I was so, so desperate for him, and so, so desperate for him not to know. It was everything I could do not to throw myself at him. His breath came faster and I flicked my tongue into his mouth, my hand pulling at his hip, needing more. He responded, hands moving over my cheeks, into my hair, down my back, over my sides.
He pulled away again, clearly intending to say something, but I couldn’t let him, not now. I pressed forward, sliding into his lap, twisting my hands into his hair, pulling him back for more. He made a sound in his throat as his hands found my hips, trying not to grab my ass. “Wait,” he said, grabbing my arms instead, holding me away from him. I obliged, eyes wide, hands light on the solid warmth of his chest. “Why?” he asked.
“Why?” I was practically panting, struggling to focus.
“Why are you doing this?” He was breathing heavy, too, I was encouraged to note.
“Because I want to.” I evaded, trying to lean back in. He denied me, grabbing my hands to keep me at bay.
“Why do you want to?”
“I don’t know.”
He sighed, clearly not happy with my answer. “Please? Just be honest with me.”
I swallowed. “I just . . . ” I paused, letting myself deflate, “Please don’t make me.”
“I’m sorry – ”
“Please? I love you. I love you so, so much. And you’ve never wanted anything to do with me like this, and I respect that, even though it’s hard, and even though you’re a pain in the ass sometimes, but I’ve wanted you for so long, and it’s just hard to accept that this is even happening, let alone that you want it!” His breath came out in a rush, still holding me, me still on his lap.
“What?!” I exclaimed.
“You’ve loved ME for so long?!”
“You have a girlfriend!”
“Yeah, so it’s really, really bad.”
“I love you!”
“I know!” he huffed, letting my hands go to rub his face.
“No, like – I love you way, way too much for you to have a girlfriend.”
He stopped. “What?”
He looked up. “How long have you felt like that?”
I evaded his eyes. “Way, way too long to be socially acceptable.”
He started to grin, turning my chin with his hand, chasing me down. “Wait, why didn’t you say anything?!”
I smiled too. “You had a girlfriend?”
“Fuck.” He said again, still smiling, then grabbed my waist and kissed me again.
I kissed him back, sucking his tongue as it plunged into my mouth, wrapping my arms around his neck as he pushed me back onto the futon, pulling him on top of me. His hands grabbed my hips, my ass, and I ground up into him instinctively, already so wet and wanting. He moved up to caress my breasts, massaging softly, thumbs rubbing my nipples through my shirt. My hands flew over his back, tracing his spine, his shoulder blades, moving to his bare arms and biceps, sliding up over his shoulders to tangle in his thick, coarse curls.
His fingers traced the tiny strip of bare skin beneath the hem of my shirt. I gasped with need, and his lips moved from mine to kiss up my jaw, his breath hot in my ear, nipping at my earlobe, then down my neck, his mouth hot and wet against my skin. My hips ground against him, finding a noticeable bulge in his pants. I felt him smile, and his hands moved upward underneath my top, tracing the edge of the cups of my bra. I was panting. I couldn’t think. I writhed beneath his fingers, the delicate slide of their tips against my burning skin. *Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.* Then suddenly, I was saying it aloud. “Please,” I whispered.
He paused, looked at me. I doubled down. “Please.”
“You want me to . . . take off your bra?” he murmured. He was enjoying this.
I blushed. “Yes. Please.”
“Well, since you ask nicely.” He kissed me languidly, soft and hot, and moved his hands around to deftly unhook the offending garment.
He slid his hands inside the cups to touch my breasts. I let out a barely-there moan at the feel of his rough skin. He watched my face, intently, while he tweaked my nipples with his fingertips. I writhed beneath him, unable to stop myself from whimpering.
“You like that?” he asked softly, rolling my nipples between his fingers.
“Ye-es.” I whispered, my breath coming in pants. I had to do something. Had to feel more of him. I slid my hand across the flat plane of his hips to find his cock, straining hard against his jeans. Now it was his turn to gasp sharply, as I traced the outline of his thickening member, the throbbing head, the damp spot spreading from the tip. “You like that?” I mimicked, palming his shaft.
“Fuck. Yes.” he growled, holding his weight on his forearm, his eyes screwed shut.
“Take off your pants,” I asked softly, scraping my fingernails along the ridge.
His eyes opened. He looked at me. He got to his knees, got off the futon, and stood up. I could see the thickness of him etched hard against the denim. He unbuttoned his pants, unzipped, pushed them over. His cock sprang up against his grey boxer briefs, still straining against the thin cotton. He stepped out of the legs, and I was moving.
I stood, my hand drawn to his cock. A moth to a flame. He groaned as I pulled his face back down to mine, his body limp, surrendered to my fingers, stroking up and down, up and down. His hands pulled my hips tight against him, his cock nestling into the softness of my belly, flexing insistently. I put my hands on either side of his face, kissed him. He smelled like sex, his breath heavy with it. I said, “Sit down.”
He obediently sat back down, leaned back on the futon, and I knelt on the floor in front of him. He swallowed. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Please,” I replied. And I used my fingers to pull down the waistband of his boxers, sliding my hand inside to pull out his cock. He inhaled sharply when I touched his bare skin. I caressed the softness of it, velvet skin over a rock-hard center, burning hot against my hand, tickling it with the tips of my fingers, stroking root to end. He breathed heavily, eyes glued to my hand, as a drop of precum leaked from the tip. I wiped it with my finger, and slowly, as if on instinct, brought it to my mouth, and sucked it off. He groaned, his body tense, hands gripping his thighs.
I bent over, and used my tongue to lick his cock like an ice cream cone, slowly, from base to tip. It jumped toward his stomach. I grinned, and did it again. He said my name, softly, breathily, and I rewarded him, sinking his entire cock eight inches deep into my throat. He gasped, and his back arched off the couch, trying to keep quiet. I drew my lips up his pulsing shaft, caressing my tongue around the soft, mushroom tip, tasting the salt of his slit, before dropping down again, letting my saliva make him sloppy and slick, dripping down into the dark hair of his balls.
I was so wet, I was soaking through my shorts. Wriggling my hips, desperate for friction against my throbbing clit. I stroked his balls, caressed them lovingly. Licked his cock again, looking up at him, needing him to see me, to see how much I loved him. His mouth was open slightly, his breath coming fast and hard. When I looked up at him, he whispered “I need you – ” and when I slid my lips back down his shaft, his eyes closed, his hips jumped off the futon, and his whisper turned into “fuuuuuuu – .”
I stood up, pushing my hair out of my face, and unbuttoned my shorts, wiggling them down slowly, smiling a little, letting it be a show. His hand drifted to his cock almost subconsciously, and I turned around, bent over, pulling them over my feet, letting him look at my ass, admire my lace thong. I came over to straddle his lap, kissing him desperately, his hands grabbing and kneading at my ass cheeks. He moved back up to my tits, pinching and twisting at my nipples, making me gasp and making my pussy throb with need. “I need you,” I whispered, kissing his earlobe, his neck, smelling the sweat on his skin.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Fuck me, please.”
“I’d fucking love to,” he replied, kissing me.
“Good,” I took him in my hand, and immediately slid down, pushing him inside, stretching full my soaking, aching center. He gasped in surprise, flexing his hips up against my throbbing clit. He felt so huge. He was everything I wanted. I wanted to beg him never to leave.
“Fuck,” he said, moving inside me as I ground against his hips, panting with need. “That’s so hot.”
“Oh, fuck,” I groaned in response, feeling his hard cock stretch and fill my aching pussy. I slid up and down, whimpering, wriggling, humping him desperately, trying to fuck him the way I needed to be fucked, trying to create friction.
He knew, and flipped me over, leaning over me, letting his body press me deep into the futon. “Oh, *fuck*,” I said, feeling his weight stretch me even wider.
“Mmhmm,” he grunted, thrusting inside of me, his hardness bottoming out in my pussy over and over again, starting up a rhythm. His cock spearing me wider with each push, the head of it stroking the walls of my pussy, his balls tight and slapping against my ass, his hips grinding against my poor aching clit. He pushed up onto his hands and I wrapped my legs around him, spreading myself for him, matching him thrust for thrust. He fucked me harder and harder, his breath coming fast, and I whimpered softly each time he filled me, cream squeezing out the sides of my pussy. I grabbed his ass in my hands, pulling his cock inside, desperate for him, crazed. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. My head tossed back and forth, so, so needy. Needing to come. Fucking him back, bucking my hips. My nails dug into his skin. “Fu-uuck” he groaned, kissing my neck, fucking me faster, pushing a hand down to frig my clit.
“Oh!” I cried out, almost sobbing with relief, “Yes. Joe. Please.”
“Almost there, baby,” he whispered in my ear, his cock pounding away. “I’m gonna make you come for me.”
“Oh, yes. Joe. Please,” I whimpered again, arching my back beneath him.
“Come for me,” he whispered, his breath hot, his cock stretching me open.
He flicked my clit again, and I did come for him, begging, pleading, calling his name. My pussy convulsing around the thickness of his turgid member as he speared me again and again.
“Ohhhh yeah baby,” he groaned, his eyes closed, as he slammed his cock into me one final time, pressing his hips flat into mine, fucking my mouth with his tongue as he exploded inside me, his fat cock twitching, pulsing. His mouth tasted like cum. I felt it spray inside me, felt thick, hot ropes of it hit the walls of my pussy, felt it fill me and ooze out, squeezing past the sides of his still-throbbing prick.
He laid on top of me, his weight pressing him deep inside, holding his cum in my depths. His full body stretched against mine, and I reveled in the weight of him, the warmth. Our breathing slowed. He nuzzled my neck before he finally withdrew, and I felt bereft, realizing quickly where we were, what had happened.
We dressed quickly, not looking each other in the eyes, and sat back down, each in opposite corners of the futon, a damp spot drying in the middle.
“What will you say to Allie?” I asked, breaking the silence.
“What do you want me to say?” he replied, glancing over at me.