To the Readers: I must first ask that if you start reading this story to please finish it as the story does not end at the beginning. Do not take the words for their literal sense and bear in mind that behind every action is a multiplicity of meaning and intention. If you do not like the character at the start remember that, if the writer has done her job, the character should no longer be the same at the end of the story so there is a distinct possibility that said character will gain your affections or at least your empathy when all has been said and done.

I have rated this story as it is because of sexuality alone and perhaps slight alcohol use by individuals not yet of legal age. I did not feel that it need be rated higher because there were no violent scenes, a lacking of any curse words whatsoever, and any mention of sexual encounters was not vividly described in any fashion. As to the subject of any "couplings" that may be disapproved of, it has been my understanding that the patrons of this site are rather open-minded individuals so I expect no comments or "flames" on the matter. If you did not like the coupling, simple leave and leave it unsaid as it is not your place to tell me what I should write. I thank you for your understanding. Reviews are encouraged but not necessary. Thank you for your time.

Blood In My Mouth

It's not the same without Reg there.

It's my thought of the evening as I sit on Twister's bedroom floor tying a thread of carpet around my finger. Mrs. Rodriguez wouldn't have approved, as it was, of a young woman occupying her fifteen year old son's bedroom for the night. Even if that particular young woman had known the youngest Rodriguez her whole life and any attraction between the two was laughable at best.

Even then, it wasn't as though Reg spent much time with the three of us anymore, anyways. She had finally reached an age when running rampant with her little brother and his immature friends was no longer ideal. It didn't stop me from noting her absence and the impact it made on that evening and every evening past.

The first time I had met Reg, and all of them for that matter, was a perfect day. We were children. Our thoughts were on the clouds, the blue of the sky, the how fast and how far. She was beautiful, pristine, excitable. She was life and all that came with it.

I loved her the minute I laid eyes on her.

I remember, I had been walking down the boardwalk once, my skateboard in hand. Reg, Otto, Twister, one of them had been in the distance waving at me, calling at me. But I had been more interested in a fallen ice cream cone melting across my path. It was soaking into the wood grain, seeping through the cracks. So sickly sweet, I wondered who would ever want it now.

Twister's parents were out of town. Away, who knows where. Whoever cares? Him and Otto had swiped a pornographic video from his father's collection. It was as though suddenly everyone I knew was so interested in the human sexual organs.

They watched it with parted lips and widened eyes. Twister was confused, it was apparent on his face. He couldn't understand the why and the what the fuck. Every now and then he'd look disgusted and then it was washed away with confusion once again. Otto was trying to hide his hard on beneath a pillow. He was embarrassed, flustered, his cheeks splotched pink. He didn't want anyone to notice. They both wanted to stop the video, neither wanted to admit it. It was so grotesque, so beautifully grotesque, as the moans lingered in our ears.

And me? I was too interested in the reactions of my friends to even chance a peek at the film.

The other day Reg had called me. Out of nowhere, I remembered the surprise. She wanted to do something. We went to get lunch. Corndogs with ketchup splattered over the parchment paper they came wrapped in. She smiled at me, hair falling in her face, cheeks flushed, her lips a cherry. I was happy. We strolled down the boardwalk, shoulder to shoulder, threw our trash in a can when we were done. She told me she had lost her virginity last night. It tumbled from her mouth as casual as a lost puzzle piece.

"What did it feel like," I had asked.

"It hurt a lot," she had answered, "and there was blood."

She told me, "I didn't love him."

I looked at her, the sun's reflection broken up along her skin. She brushed sand off her tan shoulders, the muscles beneath flexed. I thought about ice cream, asked her if she wanted a cone. She shook her head. When I returned from the ice cream vendor she had gone.

I told no one in particular I was getting a glass of water and no one in particular replied. I slipped from the room and the overly exaggerated sounds of an erotic choreographed sex scene were shut out as I closed the door. The house outside that tiny room was dark. The corridors enclosed around me, smiling family pictures of people I either knew or didn't thrust from the black.

The kitchen was downstairs. Pale white, an apparition in the night.

I was startled to see him there sitting on the counter cradling a brown colored bottle between his jean-clad thighs. He was a rare sight, now. He would disappear for days then come around to make no comments and never look our way.

I was no longer afraid of the older Rodriguez boy. He was no less intimidating but he was a caged tiger. There was a thrill, a rush of his presence, but no real threat. He looked at me with glazed eyes, an unlit cigarette loosely held between his lips. I wondered what party he had come from, his hair still plastered with sweat to his skin around his forehead and neck. I wondered how drunk he was, how much pot he had smoked.

I stood addle at the entrance as he called to me "Squid". No one called me that anymore.

I remembered seeing him surfing a week or so ago. He never rode the waves, he was a wave, roiling and folding into itself. He wasn't Lars anymore. He was tall and slender, finely etched, leather straps and wooden beads wrapped tight about his wrists then as they were now. I had envied him in the sun. Envied his body, envied his movement, sheer violent force. Envied the way nature, with its raw power, loved and made love to him.

I didn't envy him now in the kitchen. My heart was struggling under the weight of fluttering emotion. I thought of Reg. Wondered how she'd felt, quivering under that boy as he plucked her cherry. I mumbled that I was there for a glass of water as though I had to reason myself to him. He said nothing, took the cigarette from his mouth, lifted that bottle to his lip and took a ginger sip. His eyes never left me, trailed over my body, apathetic. I shuddered.

"You're not the same," he commented.

"What do you mean?"

"You're taller."

"So are you. It's natural. You get older, you get taller. I'm older so I'm taller."

I didn't want to talk to him. He made my stomach churn. He made me sick, made my skin crawl. His very presence was insulting to me. He was profane and I wanted nothing to do with him.

"But your smaller," he said, "Than before." I eyed him, wondering what he was getting at. Did he have a point? He took another sip from the bottle.

"I've lost my baby fat," I told him, "…getting older…"

I looked blankly at the faucet. He whistled at me. I turned. He leaned forward, pulled a cup from the cupboard at his back, held it out to me. Plastic, the childish decorations faded from so many washings. I walked towards him, took the cup from him. My fingers brushed his and they itched from the contact. I made a face.

"You know, people eat squid," he said. He smelled of cigarette smoke and alcohol and weed flitting over his own lingering sweet scent of sweat and himself. My stomach clenched but I stayed my ground a moment. My head swam. I hated it. I liked the smell of him.

"I know," I told him. I asked, "What does that have to do with anything?"

He shrugged, took another sip from his bottle and, working a lighter out of his pocket, said, "I like to eat squid."

I started back towards the sink. He slipped from the counter, left the bottle there, lit his cigarette and leaned back against the spot where he'd been sitting. His eyes still on me.

He questioned, "Rocket here?"

"Yeah," I answered, annoyed, filling my glass. Emptying it. Then filling it again. Though I didn't know why. I watched the water spiral down the drain.

"I hate him." It was an old story. I was tired of it. I turned to him, his head lowered, chin touching his collar, eyes staring dully into mine, smoke slipping from his mouth and nostrils.

"Why?" I wondered, quietly, "You're both older now. There's nothing to compete for. You never see each other. What's the point."

He lowered his eyes. Examined his cigarette. Brought his eyes back up to me and said, "He's loud. Not really loud…you know, not loud as in loud, but loud."

I shook my head, "That doesn't make any sense."

He flicked the ash of his cigarette carelessly to the ground, turned his head away, placed the cigarette between his lips, took a long drawl. He brought the cigarette to rest at his side, smoke floated to the ceiling. I wondered if Reg would sleep with that boy again. I wondered if Twister and Otto had turned the tape off yet. I wondered why I was still standing there.

"Haven't you ever hated someone?"

I wasn't ready for the question but the answer came without hesitation, "Yes."

"Who?"

"You."

He turned his eyes back to me. I suddenly noticed how dark they were. How intense. I noticed how deep the circles were around them. How offset they were against his bronze skin. I noticed how his lip turned naturally into a sneer. I noticed the colors of the intricate tattoo that covered his left shoulder; red, yellow, green, black, peeking out from beneath his white ribbed tank. I noticed how fluidly his chest molded into his hips and his hips dipped into his jeans. I wondered what it would feel like under my hands, the dark silken skin, the carefully constructed muscles, the strong hip bones.

My stomach knotted, my head was dizzy suddenly. The idea repulsed me.

He sucked the smoke from the cigarette again. Stubbed it out on the counter top and flicked it to the sink. Took another sip of his bottle, glanced me. He held the bottle out then, towards me.

He said, "Have a drink."

I took a few steps forward, slow, uncertain. There was still a gap between us but I felt as though our body's were flush and the blood rushed to my head. I could smell him, feel the warmth permeated from his body. I took the bottle, held it in both my hands. Looked to him and my glasses slipped down my nose. Casually, he pushed them back up into place with his fingertips, then pressed his palms into the edge of the counter and watched me expectantly.

I lifted the bottle to my mouth. The smell of alcohol invaded my nostrils and I pulled it back without taking a drink, my face scrunched with disgust. He smiled at me in amusement, held his hand out and said, "Here." I handed the bottle back, watched enviously at he lifted it to his own mouth and the golden liquid easily fell from the bottle past his lips. He lowered the bottle, put it on the counter and looked at me. My heart pounded heavily.

Suddenly, with purposeful movement, swift and without thought, he grabbed my chin with his strong fingers, pulled me forward. Instinctively my eyes squeezed shut. His lips were on mine, hard and rough, he forced my mouth open and the liquid poured in, slithered down my throat so that I had no choice but to swallow. It escaped from the corners, dribbling down to my chin. The taste was metallic, like blood in my mouth. The alcohol was mingled with his saliva, it was still strong, but the feel of him, his lips, his tongue, somehow made it bearable.

Now our bodies were flush. His one hand still gripped my chin and neck, his other held my body close to him at my hip. My own hands had come up, at first to push him away, but now they lay uncertain and at a loss, curled against his collarbone and jaw line, feeling the muscles in his neck move as his mouth worked against mine. I tried to think of Reg but all I could think of was how the melted ice cream had washed away from the boardwalk when it rained the next day. I tried to worry about Twister or Otto coming downstairs but my mind kept thinking about how Twister looked disgusted and Otto had a hard on. The smell of smoke was making me lightheaded and I couldn't figure out if it was the alcohol or Lars's saliva that was fire in my veins.

The liquid was gone now but his lips were still on mine for a moment more. And when he finally pulled away, he pulled away entirely. I watched, dejected, as he took the bottle up, his back to me, walked unwaveringly across the kitchen, paused. I couldn't move. He turned back to me, sat atop the dining room table and set the bottle beside him. I knew how I stared at it and he caught me, smirking.

He moved the bottle, loosely holding it with both hands between his thighs once more.

He said, his eyes never leaving mine, "Want another drink?"