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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
A perspective of a typical hookup

Submitted: July 29, 2009

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Submitted: July 29, 2009



I look in the mirror and adjust my straps and push them together for that instant gratification (despite knowing all will fall down soon anyway). And I finally get his call to come outside (earlier I was reading his text messages; \"Can't wait to see you tonight.\" I wonder why).

I slip past the door, thankful that my father didn't have to see me in costume like this (a little sad that he couldn't stop me). I glide down the steps in my overexposed outfit (I have underwear that is longer than these shorts), climb into the back seat between two boys in exteriors of gangsters and nerds that lightly cover the intentions beneath them (that will only grow stronger with more poison in their system).

To get to the heart of the story, we are finally in the basement bedroom (stomping overhead and music so obviously loud and surrounding us in all directions), and (weird) he shimmies off my shirt. He holds me together and kisses me (I keep saying, I don't want to regret this), I let him pull apart the (flimsy) lace that is keeping me together, and my coating is shredded, I am exposed.

And I let him inside like a sullen thought, like a spoiler alert to an ironic story, in and out he goes like the rhythm to the short stories and famous literatures we weren't discussing as we drank our sharp vodka wrapped inside juice barely sweet.

Vulgar, I feel, as I let him touch them and he talks about how big they are, his kissing, now sweet, is out of place and has nothing to do with the setting so ordinary that we are enveloped in.

And I let him finish, and we put our costumes back on (with stumbling difficulty), and I tell him I need to lay down some more and (not objecting) he locks the door for me, as he goes back upstairs to carry on with the party while word of mouth begins to simmer and I disturb their train of gossip of their best friends (I hear him laughing upstairs as I remain behind the door that everybody knows is shut).

And I wake up somehow (in his bed) hours later and sheets rustle as our eyes open into awkward good mornings and neglected thoughts that are so evident that they are overlooked. To make a long story short, no interruptions, I finally end up back home.

(And I go to the bathroom to wash away the afterthought of the night. Before I do so, I take a good look at them in the mirror, push them together again; for something that is supposed to be hidden, they sure do stick out.)

© Copyright 2017 Phyllis Birkenfloyd. All rights reserved.

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