Chapter Six

Georgina

 

 

I woke up in my own bed. I barely remembered getting home in the early hours of the morning, and the night before felt so dreamlike. But Blake was real, and The List was real, and the two of those things were going to be getting very intimate with each other real soon.

My sheets were cold, and I groaned as I slid out of them. I hated the cold. I really did. I wrapped myself up in a fluffy robe and put on an extra pair of socks before shuffling out to the kitchen.

Julie was already gone for the day. A sprinkle of toast crumbs and a cold cup of coffee sat on the counter. When she was up before me she had a habit of making instant coffee, then not drinking it. She only really seemed to drink coffee when I brewed it. Those were some of the few times we spent together, sipping our coffees at the kitchen counter, smiling together as the rich warmth of it woke us for the day.

I put my vintage percolator on the stove, and while the smell of coffee filled the kitchen I simmered some oatmeal with an obscene amount of honey, blueberries, and cream, which I refused to feel guilty about.

I had stopped eating foods that were fatty, carb-loaded or sugary two years ago when I got serious about losing weight. I saved those things for special occasions, but I didn’t see the point in ‘special occasion’ food now. Every day could be Special Occasion Food Day from now on and really, if there was ever a special occasion, this was it. Later tonight, I would be having sex for the first time.

The full implications of that thought caught me off-guard. I stopped eating with the spoon halfway to my mouth, and a big glob of oatmeal dripped onto the counter. I was going to have sex. With Blake. Tonight. Sex. With a man. His-parts-in-my-parts sex. Tonight. My thoughts looped, short-circuiting.

Calm down. It’s just sex. Everybody does it. I mean, I knew about sex. Who didn’t?

Theoretically, anyway. Everything I knew was from television, or movies, sex ed lessons, or stories from other kids. Even before high school, everyone was talking about it. None of us were doing it, not that I knew of, but there were plenty of whispers about it. Back then I thought a blowjob was something to do with blowing on someone. I mean, the whole word implied blowing, when it was more about the opposite—sucking. Why be so pointlessly confusing? Not that I really knew exactly how to do it. What if I need to know by tonight? What if Blake expects that to be part of the sex?

The oatmeal had gone cold. I shoved it aside, staring down into my coffee cup as if it had all the answers in the world. Blake knew I was a virgin but he didn’t know just how much of one. Would he be gentle with me? Would it hurt? I started wondering how big he was in the pants region. Crap. Maybe I should have hooked up with someone of smaller stature. Because he sure was big everywhere else. Sooo … biiig … My vision glazed over as I thought of his body.

Feeling desperately unprepared, I rushed into my bedroom, closed the door tightly, and opened my laptop. YouTube provided me with a wealth of information from some perky pro-sex feminist vlogger who went to great lengths to explain every aspect of sex and how women shouldn’t feel ashamed for wanting it. I suddenly realized how much I had been slut-shaming myself for making The List. Like wanting those things was as much self-punishment as it was about new experiences and experiencing pleasure, about using this body before it was gone. But between my research and Blake, I was starting to get excited by what was ahead.

Feeling all empowered, I ventured into parts of the internet I’d never been tempted by before. After a few searches, I came across some websites with free videos and managed to end up in one for people who really enjoy fellatio. I stared at it, fascinated, as clip after clip of dicks and lips flashed before my eyes.

Every few seconds I would get paranoid, and become positive that Julie had come home, and I would turn the speaker volume back down to silent even though I had my headphones on. Once or twice, I even got up and went to see if she was back, but she wasn’t.

I kept taking mental notes, trying to treat it purely as research, but soon found I was getting really turned on. I started imagining myself with Blake, how his mouth had felt on my breast, and whether the rest of sex would feel that good. Or better. I angled my hips so my crotch pressed firmly into the seat below me. I was getting so turned on I could barely stand the wait until tonight.

I’d never felt like this. Sex hadn’t really interested me or been on my mind for the last few years. I’d shut those parts of my body down, too scared to even try for a relationship, too hateful of my own body. These feelings though, this was just the awakening I yearned for when I wrote The List. I licked my lips. Now seemed as good a time as any for some preparatory self-exploration. A brief glance to triple-check again that my door was closed, and I slipped my fingertips down through the elastic band of my pajama pants.

Bang, bang, bang.

Someone pounded on the front door. I jerked my hand back out again. Panic filled me and I slammed the laptop closed. Too paranoid to leave it there in case someone was to open it and find the webpage still there, I flung the laptop under my bed.

“Georgina?”

The last person I wanted to see right now—my dad.

“Just a minute!” I shed my pajamas, grabbed jeans, and yanked them on, ran a brush through my hair, and tugged a clean shirt on over my head. I opened the door, forcing a smile onto my face that quickly became a real one.

I loved my dad. He was a darker-skinned man with a head filled with curly black hair, and bushy eyebrows like a Muppet. Dad was an inch shorter than I was—although he’d say it was the other way around—and he had grown cuddly and round from the amazing food he cooked.

Apart from his lovely olive skin, I think I inherited most of my genes from Dad, but he always told me I looked just like my mom. She had been dead for so long I couldn’t really remember what she looked like, but from the photos of her, I didn’t see it. In those photos she looked so glamorous, exotic and gorgeous. Of course, we only kept photos of her from before her cancer treatments. Sometimes Dad looked at me and smiled, and I knew he was thinking about her.

Dad had never forgotten her, or remarried. But he did date sometimes. He thought I didn’t know about that, though.

“Hi, Dad.” I hugged him, and he hugged me back. He smelled like roasted garlic and oregano.

“How’s the restaurant?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Packed. Got a TV network sniffing around, trying to get me to do some reality cooking show.”

“Again? I thought you’d scared the TV execs off for good last time,” I said, smiling.

He chuckled. “That was before being an asshole on television was the in thing. Is that fresh coffee I smell?”

I stood to one side so he could come in. “I made some about an hour ago. But I could whip up a fresh pot if you want some.”

“Thanks, love.”

“Tell me more about this show they want you to do,” I said, trying to keep the focus on him.

My attempt was futile. Dad shook his head and grumbled under his thick moustache, “I came to talk to you about school.”

My heart dropped and I turned away, pretending to be busy making a fresh pot of coffee. “What about it?”

“You haven’t been going.”

“How do you know that?” I asked. “I mean, maybe, sure, I missed a class or two, but I can always catch up.”

“Not when you’re on a scholarship you can’t. And I know it’s been more than a couple. Sherrie in the admissions office called me. You’ve missed classes for nearly a week. You’re about to get placed on probation.”

“It’s really not that bad. Sherrie probably only rang because she’s trying to hit on you. She’s always had her eye on you. You really don’t have to worry about me.” Fussing with the percolator, I dropped the entire contents of old coffee grounds on the floor and cursed.

Dad came and stood next to me, putting his hands on mine, stilling them. “Is there something wrong, honey?”

Yes, everything. “Nothing. I just had a cold and got a bit overwhelmed.” There—simple but convincing, and not too far from the truth.

“You know you can talk to me.”

“I know.” Tears welled up, but I held them back. Click. Armor on.

“I want you to come over tomorrow for Sunday dinner. No excuses, do you hear me?”

Sunday dinner was our tradition. I had blown it off last week. Looking at him, I could see how worried he was. If there was a list anywhere that had the things that I did not want to do on it, upsetting Dad was at the top of it. But I knew the moment was coming when I broke his heart forever.

“No excuses,” I said, and he gave me another warm hug.

Dad helped me clean up the coffee, then left. I stood there in the middle of my kitchen, my arms wrapped around my middle, and tried not to cry.

I failed.