“The time is out of joint…”
—HAMLET, ACT 1, SCENE 5
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this.
Not letting him take off my T-shirt or run his fingers along the outside of my jeans, pressing harder when he gets near my thighs.
I don’t even want to be doing this. Not really. But it’s not just him moaning—it’s me too. Now that I’m here doing this, I can’t just make it stop.
“I love you, Iris,” Tommy says as he pulls his T-shirt over his head. His chest is narrow and his nipples are hard brown acorns.
Tommy’s parents have gone to New York for the weekend and taken his little sister with them. He has the house to himself. When I said I’d come over tonight, I knew what I was agreeing to.
Tommy and I have spent whole nights making out, usually at my house, in the basement with the door open (Mom’s rule), but not doing it. The way we are about to now.
I know Tommy expects me to say I love him back. I feel guilty for not saying it. But I can’t. Because I’ve never been more sure that I don’t love him.
It’s my first time, but not Tommy’s. He told me he had sex with a girl last summer when they were both working at a camp in the Laurentians. Even if I don’t love Tommy, I can’t help feeling a little jealous of that girl.
“Are you sure you want to?” Tommy whispers, even though there’s no one around to hear us. We’re lying on his bed. The walls in his room are covered with vintage Star Wars posters. He stretches out his arm to reach for something. It takes me a second to realize he’s got condoms in the top drawer of his nightstand. He must’ve known—or at least hoped—this was going to happen.
“I’m sure,” I tell him, though I’m not.
Tommy makes a gasping sound. He’s still got his jeans on too, and I can feel how excited he is. How much he wants this to happen.
I’m seventeen. That’s two years older than Katie was the first time she had sex. I’m sick of waiting. I’m sick of feeling like some kid. And it’s not like Tommy’s using me, the way a lot of guys our age use girls for sex. Tommy really cares about me.
“It can hurt the first time.” His voice is shaky. “I don’t want to hurt you, Iris.”
“I’ll be fine.” Why am I the one reassuring him?
Tommy is standing up now, kicking off his jeans and white boxers. I’ve never seen a naked guy with an erection before, and the sight of Tommy standing there makes me want to laugh. He looks so…so funny. Almost like some cartoon character.
I don’t think a girl is supposed to feel like laughing the first time she has sex.
The whole thing happens so quickly, I can hardly keep track of the steps that come between following Tommy into his bedroom and doing it. When I start taking off my clothes, Tommy says, “No, I want to do it.” His excitement adds to my own. My mind may not be sure that this is the right thing to do, but my body’s not arguing. “Mmm,” I hear myself say when Tommy runs his fingers across my belly.
Tommy’s hands are shaking. He’s nervous, too, even if this isn’t his first time. Knowing that makes me feel bad for him.
I want to ask Tommy to slow down, but there isn’t time, and besides, I don’t think he could. And then, too quickly, it’s over. His eyes are closed now, and he’s got this blissed-out Buddha look on his face. His forehead’s sweaty, and when some sweat beads land in the space between my breasts, I untuck one of my hands from behind his neck to wipe the sweat away.
If I loved him, I wouldn’t mind his sweat on me.
It did hurt, the way everyone says it does when a girl has sex the first time, but the pain was sharp and over quickly. Now, my belly feels as tender as on the first day of my period.
There is a spot of brownish blood on the sheet.
“You okay, Iris?”
I should tell him about the blood. He’ll have to wash the sheets before his parents get home. “I’m fine.”
I’m afraid he’s going to tell me again that he loves me. But that isn’t what he says. “Did it hurt?”
“Nah.”
“Did you…like it?” I know what Tommy means is did I come. I know all about coming—Katie is obsessed with orgasms (she says she once had three in one night with Antoine)—but I’m pretty sure I didn’t have one. From what Katie says, it’s the kind of thing you can’t miss.
I give Tommy my best smile. “Yeah, sure,” I tell him. “Sure I liked it.”
The main thing is, I’m not sorry we did it. Not one bit. Tommy’s a decent guy. And, well, at least I’ve gotten it over with.
“Let’s just rest,” I tell Tommy. “And not talk.”
He wraps one arm around my shoulders. I close my eyes. When I do, I am startled by what I see in my head. Not Tommy, not his vintage posters, not his white boxer shorts crumpled on the carpet. My mind’s not even in this room.
In my imagination, I see someone else.
Mick Horton. His fedora hangs low over his forehead, and he’s smirking at me. It’s as if he knows exactly what I’ve just done.