A/N: I've been trying my hand at writing personal narratives. As it turns out, I am quite awful at saying exactly what I mean; I am also bad at discussing/dissecting the things that really bother me. I chose to write about this incident, not because it was my first sexual encounter, but because it caught me by surprise. This is unedited, and freeflow, so be patient.

I am not giving you daisies in a bathroom.

The Infidel looks at me with lolling eyes that have rearranged themselves into covered beatles, like brown corn, his lids like the sun-dried husks. His long horse-lashes swish and his lips come and sink into mine.

"Why not?"

And I roll my eyes like a leprechaun at this, because, really, only a boy would ask that kind of question. And I spit my answer back at him, all dripping venom and lusty sarcasm.

Because (enunciating with marked leisure) we are in a unisex bathroom at school. And I forget to the add that I'm not a slut, but the Infidel's fingers are already hooked on the inside of my ramsham jeans and are inching towards my black and scarlet underwear. Calling myself a non-slut, a non-Kentauride (1), would be ridiculous at this point.

But, "Come on. I already locked the door. Besides, all the buffalos are busy signing yearbooks."

Ah. Yearbooks. That's what this all started with. The pixelated pictures must be to blame; or perhaps it was iPod Girl (2). Either way, my ferocious, oil-scented mind had decided a few weeks prior to the end of school that lugging one of those expensive, memorabilia markers around was beneath me. Which lead to the making of my pants.

The pants (which the Infidel keeps fingering) were once a respectable pair of jeans from a semi-respectable store out in the Land of Air and Heat2 (3). I found them at the back of my closet, socially acceptable only among hobos and tweakers for their infinite bagginess. Siccors, safety pins, and a length of red ribbon patched them up nicely. The fluid number of signatures only added to their haphazard adornment.

The Infidel is parting my lips with his, and I take in the small facts; sloppy mouth, tastes like a boy, rough past the lips. I concentrate on our mouths while the Infidel takes my distraction by wave and slides his hand further down, under the red band of my underwear, searching, finding something precious and pearly beneath.

I make some sort of sound into his mouth as his fingers become tentacles. The sound is not remarkable, and it is made for his sake more than mine; I can fly in silence, but if I wanted him to— ah!— keep this excitement, some auditory compensation would be necessary. I repeat the pre-ejaculatory sound they make during every sex scene of every tramptrash movie on the face of the planet. I try to forget that we are — mm— in a bathroom in a concentration-camp of testosterone and that this is the only unisex bathroom in the school, and that this boy has just admitted to only having sex once while I am not so clean—

We jump elastically apart as a scruffy, orange-haired kid pokes his ungodly little pugnose in and "Oh, shit, sorry, I didn't know anyone— " so the door closes again.

The Infidel and I both stare. I cock a sultry eyebrow. Oh, it locks, does it?

Unbothered, the Infidel shrugs and goes over to the door, whereupon he realizes with some amusement that it doesn't lock all the way; the bolt in the door does not slide home. Whoopee for poor mechanics.

The Infidel shrugs, his tuft of shock-black hair moving indifferently. "It's cool. We can still get up in the corner."

It surprises me to see him so close so quickly. It's a roomy lavatory and I transported myself a good four feet back when the Irish ragmuffin barged in. It seems that the Infidel, with his swarthy, native skin, has also mastered slipspacing; he is before me in seconds. His "Come on," is a coo, and it suddenly strikes me as the most sleazy sound in the world. And I remember suddenly last year, when the Infidel and I were still children, sitting in class, his hand upon my sheathed thigh, my passive expression as I pulled his chair from under him in vengeance, his dazedly falling back and hitting the linoleum floor while I failed to hide my self-satisfied smile, and his affectionate muttering of "bitch" under his peach-cigarette breath—

It is the Infidel whose breath stirs my cheek. Soft fleshfolds brush mine.

"Come on."

I shoot the boy in the face.

From his still form, the shadow of the Infidel rises.

And it is with some amount of despise that I give the command:

Up against. Up against the door.

And, as teenagers will, within seconds we are back in that place, the one where our mouths mesh like fish freshly caught, where the bathroom disappears, where I pretend for him and — ah!— his tentacles into rhythm. Once again— with fair more fluid, liquid, unhesitating ease— his hand slides down and attempts to steer me forward. I know I won't go there; instead I think of horses. Horses and — mmm!— fields, and the girl that signed my crotch, but her sweet smile is drowned in his fingers, in the inexpert fumbling below that I catch and hang my breath on in little gasps.

In the back of my mind, a bell tones mutely.

But the Infidel pulls away and Shit, is that the bell? Yes. The bell signaling the end of sixth hour, and I can already hear the buffalo stampeding out to the absent-yellow buses and their swiss-expensive cars. I regret more the absence in my pants than that felt at my mouth.

We separate, the Infidel appeased and still husky, me myself quite businesslike. I bend and collect the sharpiemarkers everyone was using to brand me. We make a grand exodus of the bathroom and step out into the hall. I begin walking with curt strides while the Infidel follows lapdog-like behind. Some idiot at the end of the hall— who had, apparently, been listening— yells, "That's not school appropriate!"

In response, the Infidel grins and whoops. I toss back a birdie, badminton style.

When we reach another hallway, I stop. The Infidel sees it as an invitation and kisses me on a mouth that doesn't feel like mine. For the first time in the last fifteen minutes, I taste him and grimace:

boy. That is how he tastes. Like a boy.

My mouth aches for men.


I threaten, of course. It could have gone without saying, as the Infidel knows the least important parts of me well and is well aware that my hands and elbows have definite warmarks and scar history. He agrees and says we should hang out.

I blink. Twist myself around a smile, like a stripper around a pole.

Hang out.


But I'm still not giving you daisies.


Date of occurrence: 5.22.09

1. Kentauride. Female centaur

2. iPod Girl. She had done a similar thing with her jeans, which gave me the idea to have people sign mine. (though I doubt she had quite as much excitement in them)

3. Land of Air and Heat2. Texas