Author Note - Oh, I had to take a break from the big stuff. Not stepping away from them at all, just blinking my eyes for a moment.
/ / /
Why is it, when it comes to wonderful things, you never say to yourself 'just one time, just this once'?
It is always with bad things that you must warn, that you must throw up stop signs and barriers and road-blocks. You always have to step in quick and make your eyes look away, make those hands not touch, make your breath not hitch when everything wrong feels so right.
'Just one time, just this once', yea? That's what you say when you need an excuse to make a mistake.
/
She isn't nameless.
She's a girl you know from classes you struggle to stay awake in.
She's pretty popular, as far as high-school popularity goes. You've seen her at pep rallies and in hallways. You've seen the boyfriend she keeps on a leash, doe-eyed jock with no brain.
She isn't nameless. You know her name.
But everyone knows her name.
So, this isn't out of the ordinary.
And you aren't infatuated with her, even though she is nice to look at.
But, then, you think a lot of girls are nice to look at.
You are seventeen and you are gay and you stare much too long at most girls anyway.
What is more interesting to you, as you walk from the bar and your girlfriend is tugging at your hand, is the fact that Ashley Davies is in a place like this.
A place like this, without boys hanging all over girls and vice-versa.
A big ol' gay place like this one.
And Ashley Davies is fitting in a little too well.
It makes you shake your head and kind of laugh, seeing her dance with some girl like she does it all the time - hips swaying and spine rolling and stumbling hands running up sides.
You wonder, right before your girlfriend spins you around, where that jock boyfriend is tonight... If he is watching from some corner, getting turned on.
It's stupid how guys are, but you can't blame him, not really.
If you kept watching, you'd probably get turned on, too.
Instead, your girlfriend is kissing you and placing fingers underneath your top and your sweaty blonde hair is in your face as the two of you try to make 'dancing' into 'almost fucking with clothes on'.
And whatever Ashley Davies is doing is forgotten.
/
You feel the cool water on your face before you register your own palms cupping the liquid and forcing it upwards.
You are drunk. You shouldn't be, for a variety of reasons.
Reason one - you'll have a hangover in the morning and those suck.
Reason two - this club shouldn't even be serving you, since you are not of age.
Reason three - you have a huge test tomorrow and the numbers will look like another language to your bleary, blood-shot eyes... which means you could fail this test, which means your mother will pitch a fit... and so on and so forth.
Reason four - ... you can't remember that one, but you are sure it will come to you.
She bumps into you, lips full and smeared red, one strap to her barely-there dress falling down. You keep splashing your face, hoping to wake up. Or sober up. Both would be great, but you'll settle for one.
She leans against a stall door and closes her eyes.
You finally look at yourself in this mirror and watch, fascinated, as water hangs on your eyelashes. Like diamonds...
"What?" She asks and you realize that you said the thing about diamonds out loud.
"Nothing." You croak out, your throat suddenly dry.
"I know you."
"Yea?"
"Yea. From school."
You nod and blink and the water falls down your cheeks like tears.
You blow out a breath and place your hands upon the countertop, gearing up for going back out there and refusing anymore alcohol offers and convincing your girlfriend to take you home. Or to her place. Either would work for you.
"Can you keep a secret?" She asks you and you slowly turn, allowing your back to softly collide with the wall, too buzzed - in this moment - to focus on standing up fully.
"Sure." You say, because... well, you can keep a secret.
You've kept the secrets of your brothers, from cookies stolen to sex had. You've even kept the secrets of your parents, though they don't have clue that you have done so - calls in the night and fights from around the corner, all of under lock and key in your head.
You can keep a secret. You are good at that.
And she walks over to you, her bold moves so fluid and hazy. You are too drunk, in this moment. She probably is, too.
That makes all of this okay, this chat in a bathroom in a club - with your girlfriend out there and someone's boyfriend possibly out there as well - everything is level between the two of you, because you are both a little wasted.
"I like girls." She whispers, her mouth bumping into yours and her warm body presses against you, her arms raised until they trap your head against this wall - tan arms on either side of your not-moving head.
And you grin, because you like girls, too.
This is kind of your secret, too.
Then, of course, Ashley Davies is kissing you.
And you, Spencer Carlin, are kissing her back.
/
"Just once, okay?" A breath taken in the middle of kissing and groping.
"Yea, fine..." A quick agreement, mind swimming with lust as you find the edge of her underwear.
"And... don't, uh... oh fuck..." A secret to keep. A secret for the both of you to keep.
Your girlfriend is asleep beside you and her hand is on your hip.
You are tired. You should be asleep. Your girlfriend has to sneak you back to your house at six in the morning, all so it looks like you spent the night at home.
Not elsewhere.
Not in a girl's bed, having sex.
But you are awake, watching how darkness can actually change color the longer you stare into it and your thoughts are consumed with some tiny slip of time, with another hidden treasure stored away inside of you.
God, she is so wet. And so are you. And you are surprised at your own lucidity. You are surprised at hers as well, how easily she grinds down on your hand as it plunges past soft material and makes contact.
You like the feeling of her body pushing into you.
You like the groans that come out of her.
You like that she looks at you, eyes full of knowing as she rocks those hips, heavy with desire.
You like this way too much.
And her face is so close, so you kiss her. And she moans into your mouth as you slide one finger in, then two.
And you can't wait anymore.
You can't wait to fuck her.
You like this way, way too much.
"Spence, you okay?"
"Yep, just tired."
"Wore you out, hmm?"
You look at your girlfriend and smirk. She does the same.
You kiss her briefly and then sprint out of her car, across that dew-covered lawn and up to your window. You strip down and go to the shower, ready to pretend for another day.
Yes, you are rested.
Yes, you have been in this room all along.
Yes, you are still straight.
Yes...
"I didn't cheat. It was just once. And I was drunk. That's all." You say to yourself as hot water pours over your skin.
...you are still faithful.
/
"What are you doing in here?"
Her question startles you, in more ways than one.
"I missed a test, so Sanderson is letting me take it now."
"And where is he?"
"Uh, phone call or something."
"Oh."
She doesn't leave, though. And you've finished the test anyway, pencil poised in your hand as if you are waiting to jot down whatever might come next.
The two of you share this class, which never meant much to you before.
But now, you tend to gaze at her and remember things and then must stifle the ache that wells up between your legs.
It's like she has unsettled you - permanently.
And you can't find solid ground again.
It bothers you. It bothers you a lot.
Just not enough to stop looking, though.
"Why are you in here?" You ask and her eyes dart around even as her shoulders shrug carelessly.
"No reason."
And you know, you just know, that she is lying.
You are no egomaniac. You are not the hottest girl alive. You are not coveted by anyone.
You are, however, a girl who can keep quiet.
And, according to your girlfriend, pretty damn good in bed - you pay attention and you pace yourself, because sex is all in the details.
You don't know how you learned that, you just seemed to know.
Her reason for being here is you.
And this is where you should stand up, place that test on Sanderson's desk and walk out the door. You are full of 'should dos', they rattle in your brain.
You manage standing up. You manage putting the test down.
But Ashley Davies is propped up on that door, the one you need to walk through and the one she has shut with her back.
Her eyes no longer shift. They are on you. They are alive with dangerous things and neither of you are drunk and this isn't a club in the middle of the night.
She is looking at you.
And you are looking back.
And that ache is there again and you want her and she knows it.
She knows your secret. You are fearful that she knows all of your secrets.
"I owe you." She says as she pushes off the door and turns the lock.
You try to think of the teacher and the class bell and the students and your girlfriend and that boyfriend that Ashley has. You try to think of lies and deceit and marriages that rupture and hearts that get broken.
You wish, idly, for vodka or jack-and-coke - anything to make this not as bad as it is, anything to dull it up some and make it less heady. Less real. Less of a problem, less of a temptation.
You are just kidding yourself, though.
Because you want her.
And she knows it.
/
You close your eyes.
She is quick, but good. Damn good. But, then again, you are incredibly turned on and this whole situation is out of control... which only adds to your wanton behavior.
You are kind of out of control in general.
Otherwise, you wouldn't be here, on Sanderson's desk and one hand gripping the wood to the point of creating splinters while your other hand is buried in Ashley's hair as she destroys you with her tongue.
She is eating you out, in a classroom, as people meander in the halls.
It is too much. This is out of control.
And you like it.
You like it so much.
You bite your lip so hard to stop from crying out. And her hands hold you fast, hold your jerking hips and she devours you.
Like she has done this for years, not at all like a girl who dates boys.
You open your eyes.
Your girlfriend is laughing at something, those friends joking as you all sit in the living room of someone's house, a safe place for the queer kids to congregate.
She strokes your hand and it feels nice.
All of this feels nice.
You know how the opposite of nice feels now, though. And it is better than good. And it is worse than anything, too.
Because 'just one time' is just another lie, isn't it?
The bell rings and she wipes her mouth, even pulls your skirt back down.
You are still shaking a bit, because that was one hell of an orgasm - especially since you couldn't fully express it without drawing unwanted attention.
Holding it in made it that much stronger.
She is at the door. She is opening it once more. You glance at the wall and see that only twenty minutes have passed.
She is good and fast. Like she does this all the time and you think maybe she does.
You wonder if you are one of many, another secret notch on Ashley Davies bedpost.
It doesn't bother you, not really. You've got other worries.
"Let's talk again sometime." She says quietly and then leaves the room.
And you get up from the desk, smoothing out the cheating from your clothes.
Which is pointless. You can't smooth it out from your soul.
And you get out of there before Sanderson can return.
/
Your girlfriend hangs up and you sigh audibly.
Not because of her, never because of her - she is sweet and goofy and so damn devoted.
You sigh over yourself, trying to build up the guilt and make it so big that you cannot ignore it.
Then maybe you won't sneak out and walk to that party that half the school is going to be at.
Maybe you won't snag a beer or two, drink them like you are dying of thirst and look for that girl you can't stop thinking about.
If you weren't there, she wouldn't be able to find you.
And the minute she sees you, you know she's been waiting for you.
It's a mutual power play, this thing you two are doing. She has a hold over you, but you have a hold over her, too.
A good fuck. A secret. A moment you both crave.
And you don't talk to her. You don't make conversation in class or in passing.
She doesn't see you then.
But you don't see her, either.
Lies. All lies. And that seems to build up more than the guilt anyway.
And you don't put a halt to it.
You sneak out and drink those beers and catch her eye, watching bored as she dances with her boyfriend and he cups her ass.
You can't help it, you roll your eyes at this girl and this silly game and your own part in it.
She pulls that dumb boy down to her lips and he steps back, smiling.
He stumbles away, brushing by you and toward the kitchen.
And she melts into the crowd, the top of her head disappearing to the right.
You sit that third bottle down and you follow, weaving past the trashed and the stoned and the ridiculous.
She turns a corner and you narrow your vision.
She wants you to catch her.
You want to catch her.
You want to be caught, too.
And when you find her, when she finally slams your body onto a bed that belongs to who-the-fuck-knows, when she unzips your jeans and latches teeth onto your neck and proceeds to fill you up...
...She has you.
She has you and there is no going back.
/
"Fuck, fuck... yea, yea right... right there..."
"God, that feels good..."
You cannot respond anymore, all the words stripped from you and you are left as the animal you are - guttural and wild, labored breathing as you work toward release.
But some part of you stays put, the part of you that is inside of her, and you are as eager as always to bring her to a climax.
The party is still going. You have no clue what time it is. That small buzz from the beer has been, literally, fucked out of you.
You are stone-cold sober and, by the look on her face, so is Ashley.
She almost loses sense of herself, you can see it so plainly, and that is down to you.
You are bringing her so close that she is having a difficult time keeping up.
Her arm stops and starts and she keeps panting out expletives, face wonderfully flushed and sweaty.
And seeing her like that, seeing what you have brought out in her, it gives you more energy.
You go faster. You go harder.
And she cannot take care of you like she has been, you know it and so does she.
So, her hips thrust with abandon and you tilt the both of you to the side, pinning her underneath half of you and you grind down hard on her thigh.
Suddenly, you want to get off when she does.
Suddenly, you wonder if she wants that, too.
And, then, she is crying out and her back is curved off the bed and your own orgasm washes over you.
And you don't know why, but you lean in and kiss her.
And, for a second, she responds.
You, still inside of her and her body having after-shocks and her tongue touches yours and the two of you are kissing.
It feels nice. It feels too nice.
"Shit... shit, what's that?"
And her voice snaps you out of this trance, this scary moment that you can't explain. You listen and then you hear it - sirens and doors being slammed and yelling.
The two of you break away and button up and stand far from each other.
No time to do things as usual - Ashley leaving first and then you leave later.
No time to figure out where the line got misplaced - the one that is supposed to keep this arrangement simple and not complicated.
She heads for the window and opens it and crawls out.
Not a word. Not a look.
And things are messed up now.
Well, more messed up. Your whole life is one big mess.
You sneak out one minute later, running home and to a flashing cell-phone and a cold bed.
/
You think that this is the end.
And you are relieved.
And you are pissed off.
It is complicated. It always has been, which sucks. You were hoping this one lie would be true instead.
You were hoping that being fuck-buddies with a closeted girl would work out, in some way or another. But delusions are just that - delusions.
Your girlfriend knows something is up, but she is lost.
You should just break up with her, set her free.
She deserves better than you. If she knew what you have been up to, she'd agree.
But you stay quiet.
You've got secrets to keep, right? And you are good at that.
Bad at being in a relationship. Bad in school, most times. Bad at being uninvolved with temporary people.
But you are good at keeping those lips sealed. When need be, of course.
Ashley doesn't come looking for you and you don't go looking for her.
The gazing comes to an end. The ache dances away, at least for a while, and you move around as if you have awakened from a coma.
You've forgotten what it was like to not be always anticipating something you shouldn't.
Some part of you replays it, though.
Not the sex.
The kiss.
The way her tongue slid against your own and the feeling of her bottom lip as you lightly tugged on it, how as you pulled back... she came forward, she came for you and claimed your mouth again...
The kiss.
You think about the kiss, sometimes.
And you are captured.
And you are fleeing.
And you don't know what to do anymore.
/
There's no telling what you'd have done, though, if she had not broken down first.
It was like there was this tickle at the base of your spine and no matter how you would twist or turn, you just could not make the sensation go away.
It's her fault. You blame her.
You'll blame her even when you give in.
Because you know you will.
That's just the way it goes.
Two weeks go by and you are skipping Sanderson's class. Again.
Not because of her, but she does play a part.
You just hate that class.
You just hate school.
You skip all the time and no one knows that, not even your girlfriend.
Your wrist gets snagged, a sharp grip, and you turn fast - ready to shove some jerk off of you.
But her eyes find you and she reels you in, the two of you in some stuffy janitor's room.
And you have several thoughts hitting you at once.
Thought one - how did she find you?
Thought two - this room smells like chemicals and you wonder if you'll get a contact high.
Thought three - how did she find this room at all?
Thought four - she is roughly undoing your belt and it is starting up that damn fire in you and you kind of want her to back the hell off, because she kissed you back and you didn't flip out and disappear... She broke these rules, too.
It wasn't just you.
It has not just been you this whole time, has it?
"Ashley..." You state and you want to sound resolute.
Her fingernails are digging into your hips and somehow she already has your pants undone and your feel her rock, just a little bit, against you.
"Don't talk, okay? Just... let's just do this, okay?" She hushes into your ear right before she sucks on the lobe and you shiver.
You shiver because it feels so good and you've missed this so much and all your strength is a joke.
You are a damn joke.
You just can't laugh. Or weep. Or even thrash about in anger.
You made this bed and you've got to lay upon it.
Or this floor, this dirty floor that hides the two of you - hides you from family and from friends and from respective others, hides you from each other and whatever is happening that neither of you want to have happen.
Your knees give out as Ashley goes deep inside of you and your head hits back, painful and amazing, taking her further in.
And she is damp against you, center to your raised thigh.
Forehead to forehead, kind of like she has to be there, connected to you unwillingly.
"Jesus, Spence..." She whimpers, hovering over pleasure, taut and lovely.
And you hate her.
Because your girlfriend calls you that, calls you 'Spence', and you treat that girlfriend like shit.
And for what? For this? For what you and Ashley are doing, right now, as classes roll on and people walk on by - no one knowing what is going on behind one closed door.
You'll screw it all up for this.
You'll ruin the world for this.
And, what's worse, is how much you beg and how hard you come.
That's the kicker, isn't it?
/
It'll break someday soon.
You know this.
You even believe she knows it, too.
She's drunk and you don't know how she found your house. But she is pelting your window with small stones and you angrily tell her to go away.
But she doesn't. She staggers to the front of your house and you sneak down there.
"Let me in." She stage-whispers and you clamp a hand over her mouth.
You break up with your girlfriend. She asks why and you say that she needs to find someone who can love her properly. To her, it makes no sense.
To you, it makes all the sense in the world.
She cries and you despise yourself more than ever.
You keep her quiet until she is in your room, letting her go and staring at her tiredly.
She sways. She smells like a brewery. It's so stupid. All of it is so stupid.
"What the hell are you doing here?" You ask, shutting your door and keeping one ear open for the sound of a mother or father checking in.
But the house stays quiet as a tomb.
"I, uh... you know, thought we could fool around..." She slurs, plopping onto your bed and kicking off awkward looking high-heels.
You hear around the way that she dumped the jock.
He is already fondling some cheerleader and her friends rally around, talking trash about him like he is horrible.
She starts dating some other guy from some other school. You don't know. You don't care.
Well, you kind of do.
But you won't let on.
"You are wasted. And you need to go."
"You are goin' to kick me out? So cold, Spence..."
"Don't call me that."
She doesn't get up, but you really didn't expect her to.
She does as she pleases. And, much to your own disgrace, you usually let her.
It's not like you don't get something out of it, too.
She falls back, head on your bed and brown hair fanned out and chest going up and down so steadily. The lights are off. The moon forces its way past the clouds and hits her skin, illuminates it.
You almost say it out loud - you almost call her beautiful.
You've stopped the sneaking around during school.
Too many close-calls. Too many times where one of them was too noisy.
Too many strange feelings afterwards.
A little bit like shame. A little bit like cheap.
Of course, if a party occurs, then they might end up there at the same time and they might casually wander upstairs and they might have their own kind of party.
You are trying. But, often, you fail.
You fail miserably.
"God, fine, you can stay. Take off your clothes, though... you smell bad."
"You... really know... how to talk to a girl, Spenc...er."
And you smile despite yourself, because she heard you past all that alcohol.
No nickname for you, not from Ashley Davies.
As it should be. As it has to be.
She takes everything off and you run your eyes over her body, noting where she is revealed and where the shadows still rest. And she catches you.
She catches you and she smiles at you - the first one you've ever seen grace her lips - and it makes her far too pretty.
It makes you uncomfortable.
"You can, uh, have the bed. I've got a sleeping bag somewhere."
But her hand is on you, palm sliding over your hair and down to cup your jaw, and you are suddenly terrified to see her - not her nakedness, but her face.
Every once in a while, you find her watching you.
And she'll look away fast. And she'll even blush.
You've still got some power there. You don't want to misuse it, but you don't know how to handle it either.
What was once a drunken fumble has turned into... into... You don't know what this is.
Is it fun? Is it tragic? Is it hormones? Is it more than that?
Every once in a while, you find her watching you.
And she doesn't look away. She doesn't blush at all.
And the power goes back to her again, because you shoot your gaze elsewhere and beat the emotions down as best you can.
"Don't sleep away from me tonight." She says softly and she doesn't sound as blitzed as before, but you couldn't really tell one way or another.
You are getting dizzy from something else, something at once foreign and still familiar.
She is making you lose your mind.
She is taking your life away from you, bit by bit and piece by piece.
"Please..."
And she kisses you this time.
/
Every once in a while, you think that this might be love.
A fucked up kind love. Certainly not what anyone would wish for, you know that much.
But it might be.
Sometimes, you think it might be just that.
And you find love odd, find it demanding and raw.
It is stubborn and hard and delicious and life-altering.
It is good when you least expect it and horrid right when you don't want it be so.
Love mangles you up, ties your insides in knots.
And it hasn't made you a better person, but it hasn't totally turned you to the bad.
That girlfriend you used to have? She has moved on.
That new boy Ashley dates? She broke up with him, too.
Love cannot be contained or wrapped up or denied.
Not for long. Not forever.
It shows up, in a small grin from a girl in a hallway and trust given in a world where most people babble every shared intimacy.
And you think that this might be love.
It might be the most amazing love story ever told.
But... you don't give in, not just yet.
/
She held onto you all night.
And you held her.
She told you random things, voice so delicate, and you found your hand rubbing her back - up and down, to soothe, to calm - and she sort of fell into you.
She sort of tucked her body into you and you sort of kept her close all night long.
Her lips found your jaw and she kissed you there.
She kissed your cheek and your nose and your lips - she really lingered over your lips, savored them like a meal and you didn't push her away.
You couldn't do that even if you wanted to.
And you didn't want to push her away at all.
Her body felt good against your own.
The way your legs intersected, that felt good, too.
Waking up to her felt good.
Waking up to her and the way she, for just a moment, breathed you in - like you were her air, like you somehow gave her life just by being there - yea, that felt good.
And you think that you might be in love.
But you don't know, not just yet.
/ / /
END