Last night, in preparation for my time with Stanley, I downloaded about ten gigabytes of pornography. I already knew the biology of sex, but not the technique, the various positions and angles.
In large doses, hard-core porn becomes boring very quickly. Once you fast-forward through the dialogue and mute the music, it comes down to watching two sweaty strangers endlessly pumping, thrusting, and sucking. There’s something mechanical about it.
Through my viewing, I discovered that, with enough lubricant, you can fit almost anything anywhere, and apparently some women enjoy being spanked by a man in uniform. But in the end, I came away from it feeling like I hadn’t learned much at all.
In the motel room, there are blue carnations on the wallpaper in bunches of twos and threes. Two-three. In ancient China, it was believed that certain numbers held sexual significance. Prime numbers were masculine, and twenty-three was considered especially potent because it’s the sum of three consecutive prime numbers. My age, seventeen, is also a prime number, and the sum of the first four primes.
“Alvie?”
My gaze jerks toward Stanley. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, fiddling with his crutch. He clears his throat. “I, uh. I’m not sure how I’m going to do this without touching you. I mean, I’ll try not to. I’ll keep my hands on the bed. But—”
“If it happens by accident, I’ll deal with it.” I trust him not to do it on purpose, which is more than I usually trust anyone. “Just be careful.”
“I will.” His voice turns softer. “I promise.” He’s still fully dressed. Maybe he’s waiting for me.
I start to peel off my shirt.
“Wait,” he says. I stop.
A flush creeps into his cheeks. “People usually kiss before they start taking off their clothes.”
I tilt my head. “You want to kiss me.”
His blush grows brighter. “I, uh—was that a question?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry. It’s hard to tell with you.” A pause. “Do you want to?”
I think about this for a moment. When I see people kissing on TV, they always look like they’re trying to eat each other’s faces, and they make wet slurping sounds that remind me of a plunger sucking a blockage from a toilet. “I’m okay with just getting undressed.”
He fidgets. “You know, maybe we should turn up the heat. It’s pretty cold in h—”
I remove my shirt. Stanley clutches the edge of the bed like he’s about to fall off.
My hands tremble slightly as I undo the clasp of my bra, and it drops to the floor. His pupils dilate, and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows. “Wow.” His voice comes out soft and breathless. I’m not sure what’s so amazing. They’re just breasts. All girls have them.
“They’re small,” I remark.
He blinks. “Huh?”
“My tits.”
“They’re not. Small, I mean.”
I look down. “It’s just a fact.”
“No, they’re perfect. It’s just . . .” A short, nervous chuckle. “It’s a little surreal hearing you say ‘tits.’ It’s like hearing Mr. Spock say ‘motherfucker’ or something.”
I shrug.
“They’re beautiful.” His voice softens. “You’re beautiful.”
The words make me uncomfortable, make me feel naked in a way that just taking off my bra didn’t. He shouldn’t say things like that.
The air in the motel room is cool against my skin. Goose bumps rise on my arms and breasts, and my chest heaves as I struggle to control my breathing. I don’t know if I am aroused, exactly, but I am very aware of my body, even more than usual. I feel the roughness of the carpet under my stockinged feet, the weight of my bones, and the whisper of blood rushing through my brain, my heart. My breathing quickens, and pressure builds inside my chest.
My hands are still trembling. Am I afraid?
I’m not worried about the mechanics of it, which are fairly simple. I tried it with my fingers last night, and while there was some stinging, the pain was no worse than bumping into a chair in the darkness on the way to the bathroom. No—I’m afraid that I’ll say something or do something that will ruin this, and he’ll turn away from me in disgust. Or that I’ll panic.
But I’m not going to change my mind. Not now.
I stand there, naked from the waist up, and say, “Undress.”
He fiddles with the first button of his shirt. Then he starts to reach for the lamp cord, to turn off the light.
“Don’t,” I say.
He freezes.
“I need to see what I’m doing.”
The muscles of his throat move as he swallows. “Okay.”
Uncertainty steals over me, the network of wires and strings pulling tight inside my body, and I wonder—again—if he doesn’t want this, after all. Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe he’s disappointed by my boyishly flat chest or my knobby collarbones. I’ve never thought much about my body and whether someone might consider it attractive, but looking at it objectively, there isn’t much of interest.
Then I look down at his pants and see the bulge straining against them.
For a few seconds I just stare. A tremor runs through me. Not fear. Excitement.
It’s proof. He’s not doing this just because I asked it of him, or because he feels sorry for me. He wants this. He wants me.
My own breathing suddenly sounds very loud and unsteady.
I notice him staring at my breasts. He notices me noticing and looks away. “You want to touch them,” I say.
“Yeah.” His voice comes out thick and hoarse, like he has a sore throat.
My head is buzzing. I’m suddenly very warm. “Go ahead.”
“You’re sure?”
I nod.
He gulps, raises his hands. Lowers them. Then takes a deep breath and raises them again.
The first touch is like jumping into a cold pool on a hot summer day. For a few seconds, it’s unbearable, and then the shock fades, and I’m floating. I watch, holding my breath, as his fingertips graze my breast. His thumb brushes over one nipple, then rubs in a slow circle, and there’s a pleasant flutter somewhere deep inside my body.
I’m off-balance, my head spinning. Already, my nervous system is starting to overload. I need to pull back.
I grip his wrists and push his hands down. He clutches the coverlet. I close my eyes and breathe in slowly, finding my center of control. The world steadies around me, and my eyes open.
“Lie down,” I say, “on your back.”
He stretches out on the bed and lies stiffly, arms at his sides, legs together. I put my hand on his crotch.
His hips jerk, his mouth opens, and his eyes go soft and glassy. “Holy shit,” he blurts, then bites his lip. “Sorry.”
I pull back. “Did I hurt you.”
“No. Just surprised me. It—it felt good.”
I reach for the top button of his shirt. Immediately he tenses up. He starts to lift his hands. “Hands on the bed,” I order, breathless. He clenches his fists on the sheets again. I undo another button.
“Wait,” he blurts out. “I don’t have any condoms.”
“I brought one.” I fumble through the pocket of my hoodie, which is draped over a chair, and pull out the small foil-wrapped packet that I purchased from a convenience store earlier. “You don’t have a latex allergy, do you.”
He shakes his head.
“Good.” I lay the packet on the coverlet and reach out to undo another button.
“H-hang on. Let’s not rush this.”
I freeze, not quite touching him. “What’s wrong,” I ask.
The muscles of his face tighten. “Nothing.”
I don’t move. Am I doing something bad? Lightly—very lightly—I touch his thigh. I brush my finger over the tiny metal tongue of his zipper, then tug it down a half inch. He remains perfectly still. I tug it down a little farther, and his eyes slip shut. A sheen of sweat gleams on his forehead.
Once I start, I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know how it’s supposed to happen.
When I speak, my voice trembles a little, despite my effort to hold it steady: “I’ve never done this before, so you’ll have to let me know if I do anything wrong.”
His eyes snap open. “What?”
I realize at once that I’ve made a mistake. I bite my tongue.
“What did you just say?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I start to pull down his zipper, but he catches my wrist. I flinch.
He releases me, but immediately he sits up, looking at me directly. “You’re a virgin?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“Please. Just tell me.”
I don’t know what will happen if I tell him the truth, but I can’t lie. I’ve never been a good liar. So I don’t say anything.
He covers his face with his hands. “Oh my God,” he whispers.
I wait for a few seconds, but he doesn’t say anything else. My chest is tight and uncomfortable. “Do you want to keep going,” I ask.
He lowers his hands slowly. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I thought—I mean, in the park, when you asked me if I wanted to . . . I thought you must have done it before.”
My chest isn’t tight anymore—it’s empty. Numb.
I’m almost relieved. This is a world I know and recognize, a world where the doors of human contact are closed to me. The reason doesn’t matter. The point is, it’s over. I turn away.
He says my name, but I don’t look at him. I pick up my bra and slip it back on.
He stands and reaches out to me. “Wait. What are you—?”
I step away. “It’s all right. I’ll go.”
I pick up my shirt. My whole body suddenly feels stiff, and it hurts to move, but I put the shirt on anyway. My head is buzzing oddly. I need to get out of the room. I need to go home, crawl into the bathtub, and wrap myself in blankets.
He says my name again, louder, but his voice is muffled, as if I’m hearing it through several feet of water.
I walk toward the door. He blocks my path. His unzipped pants start to slip down his thin hips, and he hastily zips them back up. “Listen to me! Please. If I’d had any idea this was your first time—”
“I don’t see why it matters.”
“Of course it matters! What sort of person do you think I am? Did you really think I’d just—” He stops, face flushed. “Maybe I should have told you.”
“Told me what.”
His jaw tightens. The flush in his face grows brighter. “I’ve never done this, either.”
I stare. Somehow it never occurred to me that he might be as inexperienced as I am. He’s older than me, for one thing. And while he might be an introvert, he’s definitely not autistic; his speech comes too easily, too fluidly. Suddenly I don’t know what to think or how to react. I never even paused to contemplate what this experience might mean for him. Or rather, I believed that he’d simply take advantage of the opportunity, assuming he didn’t find me too unattractive.
“You’re a virgin,” I say, though that’s already been made clear.
He looks away. “I know. It’s ridiculous.”
I study his expression, trying to glean something from it. “Why.”
“Why have I never had sex, or—?”
“No. Why do you think it’s ridiculous. You’re only nineteen.”
He sighs. “Well, you know how it is. Guys aren’t supposed to be virgins. We’re supposed to lose it like two minutes after we hit puberty, and if we don’t, there’s something wrong with us.”
“That’s absurd,” I say. “There’s obviously nothing wrong with you. You’re normal.”
He laughs. It’s a strange sound—empty and monotone. “Normal, huh?” His voice is low, like he’s talking to himself.
“Yes. Aren’t you.”
He ignores the question and starts to place his hand on my arm. I flinch, and he withdraws. I cross my arms over my chest and study the pattern in the carpet. For a moment, neither of us moves.
“Sit with me,” he says. “Please?”
I tug one braid. “Be careful. About touching, I mean.”
“I will.”
We sit side by side on the edge of the bed. My hands are clasped tightly in my lap, the skin around my nails whitened from the pressure. I don’t know where to go from here. The plan has gone completely awry, and I never came up with an alternative strategy, aside from just leaving and going home. This is uncharted territory.
“Will you do me a favor?” he asks quietly.
I swallow, trying to moisten my dry mouth. “What.”
“This will sound weird, but just look at me for a minute. Tell me what you see.”
I look.
His hair is a bit mussed, and his shirt collar is crooked, but aside from that, he looks the same as ever. We’re very close; close enough that I can see the little ripple patterns in his irises, like the veins in marble.
Eye contact is too intimate—it feels like we have our hands in each other’s guts, feeling around where it’s tender and bloody—but I force myself to hold his gaze.
“I see you,” I say. “I see Stanley Finkel.”
He averts his eyes. I have a feeling that wasn’t the answer he was looking for, but I don’t know what else to say.
When we finally leave the motel, it’s almost midnight. I drive him back to the lot where his car is parked, and I park next to it. The engine idles. The pale green glow of the dashboard bathes his face. “I want to see you again,” he says.
I know he’s not talking about text-chatting. My hands are locked tight around the steering wheel. “I can’t.”
“Ever?”
I close my eyes. “Trust me. It’s better if we just keep talking online.”
“I don’t understand. If it’s something I said or did—”
“It has nothing to do with you.”
“Then why?” he whispers.
He’s not going to give up, I realize. Even if we go back to Gchat, it won’t be the same. This was a mistake.
“Listen,” he continues. “I know you’re self-conscious about being—different. I know that’s why you didn’t want to meet at first. But I don’t mind.”
My breathing space has shrunk down again, confined to a tiny cavity inside my chest. Everything is hot and tight inside. I hear a sound like scraping rocks in my head—my molars grinding together—and I force the words out between them: “You don’t know how fucking different I am.”
A light drizzle patters on the roof of the car; the only sound. Droplets slide down the windshield, casting shadows that trickle down his cheeks.
“I’ll be in the park again tomorrow,” he says. “Same time.”
I don’t answer. I wait until he gets out of the car and gets into his own car. Then I drive away. A dull rumble echoes up from the Vault, and I shudder. I don’t ever want to look inside.
It’s horrible, and dark, and filled with the roar of water.