Sex & Sox

My passions: Sex and the Boston Red Sox!


Sunday, January 16, 2005

I Kissed A Girl...

When I was a freshman in high school (that's grade 9, for any Canadian readers), I had a penchant for antique nightgowns, Broadway musicals, and Ouija boards.

No, really, stick with me here, it's worth it.

I hung out with a group of girls who were universally decried as "freaky" geeks, because they were simply so un-cool that even acknowledging their existence lowered your standing in the eyes of your peers. Well, these were my friends, dammit all to hell, and their oddities were what made me like them (it should be noted that my reputation never recovered from this blow). We wrote moody, romantic poetry, told each other gothic love stories, and they worshipped Ann Rice while I despised her work, though I pretended to like her as well (this entailed carrying around one of her novels in my backpack at all times, along with the soundtrack to either "Les Miserables" or "Phantom of the Opera").

We had frequent slumber parties at the home of our 'leader', Kim. Kim lived in the most beautiful farmhouse with her grandma and mother, sang soprano with the voice of an angel, and had a body that, while vaguely pear-shaped, fourteen year-old girls would kill for (and fourteen year-old boys ogled shamelessly). That first semester, I was lucky enough to be her favourite, and while the other girls sat next to each other, Kim and I sat against each other.

Kim was also suffering -- well, perhaps joyfully living -- under the delusion that Lestat loved her. That he stood outside her home at night and sang to her with Michael Crawford's voice, purring words of love for her ears alone. "He'll do it with you there, I know," she told me once, as we sat beneath a tree sharing lunch, "I want you to spend the night on my birthday. He said he'd come to me then, and I want you there." Her earnest eyes were endlessly deep, and I happily agreed.

Her sixteenth birthday was on a chilly day in late November, when the trees were bare and the ground dusted with snow. Looking from her bedroom window, you could see a graveyard of tilted headstones and mold-covered monuments, surrounded by those half-crumbled stone walls that are so prevalent in New England. This, she claimed, was where he stood, and where she would go to be near to him.

Our group of geeks celebrated her birthday by playing the "Phantom of the Opera" soundtrack loudly enough to cover our breathless giggling and chattering about what the Ouija board told us. The other women of the household were too far away to hear us, but when 9 o'clock rolled around, Kim's mother came in with a smile and escorted all the other girls away to where their parents waited, in the graciously appointed living room.

"So, I want to show you this nightie I bought," I told her. There was an antique store across the road from where I lived (it should be noted that northeastern Connecticut, as I'm certain much of rural New England, is full of antique stores) that I visited weekly, to browse the new wares. This nightgown I was proud of: crafted of lustrous ivory silk with a black voile overlay and a sleek scarlet ribbon under the breasts, the low-cut black lace bodice had narrow spaghetti straps -- I could just picture a courtesan lounging in her apartment wearing it, shrugging off the sheer long-sleeved ebon surcoat that came with it. We romanticized prostitutes: Les Miserables featured one, and that was reason enough for us.

When I stepped into the bedroom wearing it, she squealed, "It's beautiful!" Then she frowned slightly and added, hesitant, "But... it doesn't fit you right."

I didn't have her shape; the nightgown hung on my gaunt adolescent form just like it had from the hanger. "Well, you try it on," I said. I still don't know if I actually had a plan, or if it all just fell together, but I changed back into my other clothing and handed her the nightie.

Imagine, then, a burlesque dancer, shapely, curvaceous, utterly woman, wearing something that fit like a glove, pushing her already ample breasts together and up, caressing her waist and hips, making of her something you could never have envisioned but, having seen, knew was the way she was meant to be seen. This was Kim, in that nightie. I couldn't speak when I saw her. "Happy birthday," I finally managed, "You can have it. I can't wear it after seeing how perfect it looks on you."

We sat down and continued playing on the Ouija board, me in a t-shirt and panties, her in ... that. She didn't wear the surcoat, having modeled it and discarded it, and as I allowed her to spell out the things she wanted to hear ("This is Lestat... I have come for you... We will be together tonight... You are so beautiful..."), I finally blurted, "Tell him he can take over my body."

Her smile lit up the room. She told him. She turned on the "Interview with the Vampire" soundtrack, and turned off the lights. She laid down on the bed, under the covers, her eyes closed, her face radiant, her lips curved into a slight smile. I laid beside her. I closed my eyes. I held her hand. I controlled my breathing, and counted to sixty. Then, with a quickly dismissed thought of "You should not be lying to her," I began to touch her.

It started with me sliding under the covers, my fingertips on her legs, pushing up the soft voile and the smooth silk, my lips on her hands. She was utterly still. She gasped when I rubbed my hands higher and, frightened, I pulled away. Laid down again. Told her it was done.

This happened twice. And twice she insisted, "No, it's okay, don't be scared Tatiana, he won't hurt you, and I don't mind."

So then. The third time. It's a charm, you know. This was where I kissed her (before, it should be noted, I had ever French-kissed a boy). This was where my fingertips traced a path for my lips, down her jaw, her throat, over her chest. I tugged at the neckline of the nightgown, running my tongue over the curves of her breasts, then sank under the covers, where the hem of the nightie twisted around her thighs from my previous explorations, and pushed it up to her waist. I kissed her plump thighs, pressed my lips to her high-cut black panties and breathed in the scent of her arousal, nuzzling against her but not daring more.

I can't recall how long this, the third time, went on for, but I remember her shuddering under my fingertips, and how powerful I felt, to have someone respond to me like this. I remember the whimpering of her breath, the fluttering of her eyelashes as she struggled to keep them closed. I remember how, while I touched her, she didn't touch me, and I didn't want her to.

And I remember, with perfect clarity, when she finally gasped the words that broke the spell: "Lestat. My love."

It was a shock to me. She actually believed what she had been 'told'. She thought a fictional character had taken over the body of her fifteen year old friend, and come to her on her sixteenth birthday, and was doing these things to her out of love. She didn't, at least in her state then, realize that it was me, Tatiana, the geeky little blonde alto (I later found out that I had been voted cutest girl in freshman chorus, but no boys would talk to me because of my friends).

I pulled away from her. I laid down. And, when her breathing slowed, I said, "It's over. It's just me."

After that night, our friendship cooled. I couldn't look her in the eye, and though she asked me repeatedly to come over for the night again, I wouldn't. I wouldn't be alone with her. I wouldn't sit next to her. I relinquished my place as her favourite and drifted off into loneliness. I ate lunch alone every single day of school for the rest of that year. That all changed the next year, when I found Melissa, but that... is a different story altogether.
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