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My sexual expirence with a college student that graduated from my high school. I wouldn't advise it.

Submitted:May 17, 2011    Reads: 153    Comments: 1    Likes: 1   

He kisses me softly. Something I've never really, truly, experienced before. I've been with such rough characters in my past. Will this last? Why question it now? His tender touch brings chills up my spine. He lowers himself over me, and it's finally happening. I'm cued in. I know what's about to happen next. But this time is different. Gentle. Completely equipped to handle the curves, and warm skin, that is me. I know he's compelled to grab my hands, hold them above my head, but there is tolerance in his touch. He wants me to be ready. Yet, he takes me away to this foreign place, promiscuous behavior prematurely.

I'm not ready, and something in his eyes tells me he knows. But what does it matter? I'm damaged goods. My cherry has already been stabbed, and left to bleed out. I scream out in pure ecstasy. Am I really enjoying myself? Too good to be true. He'll leave me after he's finished. He kisses my neck, trying to draw my attention towards him, I cannot look. The guilt rises inside me like fresh dough. I want to cry. Why do I allow this? Why can't I stop? I cover my breasts. I am exposed. He whispers he cares, promises me a better tomorrow. "We'll be together, soon." he assures, as I slowly turn away from him.

I can hear his slow slumber reaching him now. I flip on the television, look at the 'Slip Knot' poster in front of me. I am diseased. Tainted, wasted. I check my phone. No messages. Why would there be? I'm with the one and only message I just received moments ago. I start to study his features. He is bland. Decent sized eyes, an adequate nose, a large banana mouth. Why do I kiss that? His skin is scarred from adolescence. Little bumps and moles cover his body. He is a boy, claiming to be a man. I seventeen, he a fresh nineteen.

We are so wrong for each other. I stare at the soccer medals that are the décor of his 13 year old styled bedroom, and constant self portraits of himself in each dedicated sport. Why am I with this tool?

Yet, I like him. I like that we can scrunch our faces together, real close, and make silly faces at each other. I like his touch. His hands on my waist. The pools of clear, blue, water in his eyes. I examine his Purdue sweatshirt, debating if I'll throw it over my naked flesh. Why is he asleep? Shouldn't we stay up and talk. Take a shred of interest in each other's thoughts, no matter how distant our orbits travel. I can hear his mother outside, bustling in the kitchen. The guilt comes running back to me. Did she hear? Am I a slut? I head for the locked door. Then I turn around to look at the undressed, sleeping boy on the bed. I can't leave him, not yet. I need to feel alive, have him inside me, to reassure the heart is still beating, the skin still steaming. I know jabs of pain are headed in my direction, but the jabbing can wait, just one more day.


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