Lexie's First Time(5)

“Yeah, like that,” he said.

Just then, the merry-go-round came to a complete stop, with a tight squeak.

We both stepped off, and he walked me back to Laura's house, kicking at loose pebbles in lieu of conversation.

Back inside the warm house, the girls turned off the movie and gathered around me, demanding

details.

I wrapped my wet self in a big towel, pausing to fuss with my hair because I knew I had to make a choice.

“We mainly just talked about Laura,” I said. “He really likes her.”

It was a lie by omission. Apparently I was a good liar, because all but Renee looked satisfied with that, and we went back to watching our movie.

I felt different, though. Changed. I couldn't wipe the big grin off my face.

The next week at school, I didn't feel like such a dork. I didn't become insta-popular, but I was twenty to forty percent less dorky.

My skin either got better, or my attitude improved enough that I saw the few small dots for what they were—just a couple of dots. The same as everyone at school had.

I got over my fear of putting bits of plastic on my eyeballs, and started wearing my contact lenses and makeup instead of glasses. I wore my hair down instead of tied back, and ten times a day I

reminded myself not to hunch up my shoulders.

When I walked through the halls, I imagined that I had a Mona Lisa smile on my face. I had a

secret.

I hadn't told a single soul about Lars pleasuring me in the rain on the merry-go-round. He was

macking on Laura, so he hadn't breathed a word, either. I'd had that rare opportunity to do something skanky and fun without becoming the week's gossip object at school.

I felt worldly and experienced, but I was still a virgin.*

*In the sense I had never touched an actual penis.**

**This particular definition wouldn't apply to lesbians, of course.

Was I looking forward to touching a real penis?

You bet I was.





PART II


The remainder of my high school career, all three weeks of it, was (sadly) penis-free.

My mother was beyond thrilled I'd gotten a scholarship to help offset the cost of going to college in the fall, and I was happy I'd be heading out of town and towards a penis. Oh, and a boyfriend, of course. But mostly the penis.

All the good summer jobs in town were taken, and my only option for earning some cash was

babysitting for less than minimum wage. I turned down the job, but every day I couldn't find

something better, I felt the pain of regret.

Worse, my mother was going through some sort of uterus-related thing and was a nightmare to be

around. I loved my mom, and we'd always been close, but her hot flashes made me want to kill myself.

She was always on the edge of a meltdown, her energy as tense as a stretched wire. The sound of her voice clawed inside my head like an angry cat in heat—a cat that regretted its life choices and was also trying to lose ten pounds.

I made the mistake of suggesting my mother might enjoy the natural stress-relief of having grown-up relations with a gentleman friend, and the next day I found my bags packed for me.

“Carridee has a job for you,” she said.

Carridee was one of my mother's oldest friends, and she lived in a town even smaller than our own, up in Vermont. She had a whole brood of kids, mostly girls, and I figured the job was being her nanny.

Babysitting didn't seem beneath me anymore, especially if it got me out of the house.

I got on the bus, and when I showed up in Vermont, I was surprised to find the job wasn't

babysitting at all, but cleaning cabins for tourists and rich people.

I was happy for all of five minutes.

Then she told me how little I'd be getting paid to scrub other people's toilets, and it made spending the summer running errands for my hormone-crazed mother seem like a day at the spa.

I spent the entire month of July cleaning rental cabins and cottages.

Cabins and cottages, you ask? Yes. What's the difference? I'll tell you!

They are almost interchangeable terms, but cabins are usually made of wood and not insulated for winter living. A cottage is basically a house, made of any material, but its remote location makes it a cottage and not a house.

When you're trying not to breathe in other people's pubic hairs while pulling dirty sheets off a bed, you have lots of time to think about such matters.

I also spent way too much time thinking about sex—namely, all the sex I wasn't having.

Because I was working on my own, I fell into a daily routine of hustling my ass to get all my

cleaning done as quickly as possible, then doing dirty things to myself. You know how Pavlov's dogs were trained to drool at the ring of a bell, expecting to be fed? I got that way about expensive linens with a high thread count. I'd unfold those Egyptian Cotton sheets and run my fingers along the fold lines, getting wet with anticipation for later running my fingers through my own pink folds.