Saturday, August 26, 2017

first love, first heartbreak. Part_2

 Part 1

I spend the next couple weeks making characters for a D and D campaign that I will never play. I invent an entire world around a lonely half-orc wizard, whose spells always missfire, and who the players mistrust. In the end of course, he saves the party, destroys the orc-king, and moves up a level.

Rumors of my sexual power circulate around my school. And I am even more popular than I was already. Older boys in jean jackets want to hang out with me. Younger boys, look up to me. Even Laurent, on the swim team, quits acting like such a fuck. Nonetheless, I cry every night. I miss my friends back home. And I wonder how it is possible to feel so much love and infinity in one second, and so destroyed and alone the next.

A few weeks later, Sophie, through her little brother, my classmate, invites me to her house after school. I consent. Enthusiastically. I am jumping up and down with excitement (at least on the inside, I always play it cool on the outside. My rapist told me: “if you keep up this nonchalant thing, girls are really gonna love you.)

Some boys on the playground, overhear Sophie's brother, Gérôme inviting me over. They start gossiping about her and I. I confirm what they've heard.

Jean Paul says laughing, “haha you're fucking Gérôme's sister and he still thinks you have to pee in a girl to make a baby...” Someone pushes Gérôme. He looks sad and confused and unsure of how to react. I want to defend him. But I am unsure of what to do. So I just say, “Shut up idiot, Gérôme is cool.” That seems to be enough. I feel a rush of power.

After school Gérôme and I walk along the bike path to the bus stop, eating a baguette. I like the gooey inside. He likes the crisp outside. It's a match. We laugh awkwardly about stuff at school. And French girls, of whom I am now considered an expert. He really is the coolest kid I've met.

We take the bus down the hill to a neighboring suburb. We get to his house and he says, “Sophie's already home. I have to go meet a friend. See ya!”

I ring the door bell. Sophie answers. She is wearing a pale pink summery top, high-waisted short-shorts and knee socks. She is more breeze than girl. I am so nervous and excited...

I don't remember much of the next few hours, or weeks, with her. I remember her tiny round breasts. I remember how she bit her lips while we fucked for hours. I remember its pink folds and blonde hair. So different from my rapist's terrifying and alluring parts. I remember once she whispered to me, “Dis moi quelque chose de gentil.” I didn't understand. Tell me something nice. Like what? Like you love me. I do. I love you. More than I will ever love anything. I wish I could die right here, right now.

Mostly, I remember that no one shamed me for fucking her. That no one called me a slut. That no one treated me like a defiled purity.

The most painful memory I have of the whole experience was when one day, she invited me to dinner with her family; they laughed at me for pouring the grenadine in the glass before the water. I dropped an ice cube in, and stirred it with my finger watching the heavy syrup turn a light pink.

I wish all of life were like this: an un-selfconscious, profoundly unexpected, encounter with sweet beauty.

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