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Sentences hold stories.

How long are these stories?

I had sex last night.

At first, the warmth of his skin surprised me. I remembered it because it was the same temperature of the tea he had made me. The leaves were strained. All of them. The milk was the perfect amount. It was carefully prepared, I could tell. It was flattering. The other boys didn’t know how to treat a girl. I was so tired of the noisy love that filled our corridors. Words springing out of mouths like vomit, plastering the walls with promises and missing and heartache and heart break. I didn’t have time for any of it.

I had sex last night, for the first time.

Do you know what it feels like when someone looks at you as if they already owned you? The first time I saw him he had this look as if I was a book he had misplaced and finally found, appearing in a sea of old editions and new paperbacks stacked in a place you never expected to see them in, like a public bathroom or a tennis court. He couldn’t believe his eyes. They questioned me, ‘Where were you? How have you been? I want to touch you.’

There are not many firsts I remember. The first time I rode a bike was significant. I had fallen down and lost a layer of skin on my right knee which burned even more when my dad tried to fix it with alcohol. The first time I cooked a meal. That was 3 hours of reading instructions in small fonts next to large images of unachievable, good-looking food. It ended with me slipping on a tomato and bashing my head on the granite kitchen counter. That was also the last time I cooked a meal. But these are it. Significant things have happened to me, certainly. But I wasn’t hardwired to remember them the way I remembered these. And the way I will remember last night.

His cologne was still on my chest, rubbed off from his neck as it made its way down my body. It smelled like a hotel room affair or an expensive buttoned down shirt, cool and breezy, casual and sexy. It smelled edible. His lips were whiskey warm and his fingers ice cold and at some moment they both were pressed against my lips taking turns to kiss me and to quieten me.

I had sex last night, for the first time, with my high school teacher.

We had to be quiet, he warned. The walls were too thin and at any moment someone could arrive.

‘I only want you to arrive,’ he joked politely, too much of a gentleman to use high school terms like ‘come’ or ‘fuck’ or ‘let’s?’ The other boys were too silly, too shy, too aggressive, too much. He was just right. He never asked me if I wanted him. It never crossed his mind. Of course I did.

I had seen movies. It was my favourite thing to do. I saw women being swept off their feet. I saw them being chased. I saw them being loved, adored, lusted after, complimented, cat- called. I saw them encounter gentlemen who opened doors. There were so many things to be opened. Doors, jars, whiskey bottles and legs. And here was my man. A gentleman who was wise enough to know what I wanted. Who chased me and swept me off my feet. And carried me to his office, his right hand at the small of my back, his eyes darting across the corridor to make sure it was empty, his left hand opening the door and ushering me in like a precious diamond he stole from a window display.

‘You want tea?’ he had said. And then he started making me some.

‘One sugar,’ just the way I liked. Then he poured himself a large peg and sipped on it like an ad-man from the 70s, Don Draper droopy eyes in 5 quick sips. My tea sat there untouched, just like me.

‘You don’t like it?’ he asked. This was tough to answer without actually drinking the tea. So I picked it up and gulped it down before he gulped down his large drink and swooped down and urgently began kissing me. His lips searched and searched and his hands undressed me like the tablecloth trick, quickly and smoothly. It took some time for him to coax my legs open but soon he had hit home, in quick and urgent strokes that fought against time, raced against the night watchman’s usual rounds and my bandmate’s suspicions of my whereabouts. It was over as soon as it began. He looked apologetic about not lasting too long. This was a compliment to me. Next time it would be different. Better. I had a lot to learn. And clearly he was going to teach it all to me.

I had sex last night, for the first time, with my high school teacher, and I didn’t want to.

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