Trishelle doesn’t come home that night. I text her constantly until she finally messages me back and tells me she’s staying with some of the other cheerleaders at a house on east campus. It’s so unlike her that I ask her a trivia question to make sure she’s really the one sending it— the name of the song we made up a dance to in sixth grade. There’s no way she’d tell anyone that we rocked choreography to a remix of “My Humps”, so it’s got to be her.

I make my way back to our apartment, grateful for the flats I selected earlier since I still feel wildly unbalanced. Tyson’s hands on me are like a strange dream— the way I felt about Tyson’s hands on me are like an even stranger one. I’m the girl that all those anti-sex videos you watch in middle school absolutely worked on. I haven’t had sex, haven’t really done much beyond kiss, and haven’t even seen a penis in real life. And yep, that’s what I say— penis. Vagina. The formal, totally not-sexy, clinical terms.

But when Tyson was touching me, the dirtier words flooded my mind. The desire to have sex, the desire to let him take control. The desire to let him have me, both in the abstract and in the physical. He seems so sure of everything, so calculated and precise, and now that I’ve put down the weight of responsibility for a few moments in his arms, I’m painfully aware of how heavy it is when it returns.

I hurry into our apartment and lock up, then head to my bedroom. Normally, I’d never dream of getting in bed without washing my face, but tonight everything is tumbled around. I lock my bedroom door, strip my clothes off, and fall straight onto bed with my legs spread. I want to feel the place where his fingers were pressed to my skin. I touch those spots, disappointed I can’t emulate the pressure. I close my eyes and take a long, deep breath, then slide my hand up my thigh, like Tyson did. I moan— not as loudly as I did with him, but still, I moan from my own hand and the memory of his.

I wanted him to keep going. I wanted Tyson’s hand to keep climbing, to touch me. I slide my hand farther, and feel myself slipping back into the mindset I’d had with him. I slip out of my responsible self and think only of letting go, of letting him take charge. In my mind, Tyson’s hand rubs hard against my inner thigh, up and up, until his fingertips brush the lips of my pussy. I startle at the sensation, but then moan again as he lets one finger slowly, gently run along my slit, playing with my wetness. I arch my back up, imagining myself pushing up against him, against his strong chest, being lifted up against his body until his cock— thick and hard and intimidating— presses against my stomach.

His name flutters off my lips even though he isn’t here to listen. I part my pussy with my fingers, imagining it’s Tyson’s thumb rolling along the top of my clit, making me whimper. He’d touch me with those strong, certain hands; he’d rub my pussy with his thumb until I grasped his shirt, then he’d gently slide a finger into me, rubbing against the front of my pussy in that spot that I can barely reach, but I know he could. He’d massage my clit and my pussy, his mouth pressed to my neck, and I’d be his— full of him, unable to escape as he made me writhe and moan in his arms. Tyson Slate would be more in charge of my body than I’d be, and he’d slide his tongue into my mouth as he stroked my clit until heat rose within my chest, until I was pumping my hips against his fingers, until I was desperate for more of him inside of me.

“Come for me, Anna Milhomme,” he’d command, and I’d be helpless to do anything else. He’d press harder against my clit, and it would tip me over the edge. I’d cry out, my limbs would lock in place, but Tyson wouldn’t stop; he’d rub my clit and finger fuck me as I orgasm, as wetness flooded from me, as I went fuzzy and hot and his name fell from my tongue over and over.

I pant, my body in my bedroom but my mind with Tyson— I keep my eyes shut so the fantasy doesn’t fade. He’d kiss me, pleased at the sweat that’s formed along my brow and neck from his touch, then pull his fingers from my pussy, patting it gently, like he’s happy with my work too. I want more, though, I don’t want it to stop— I want him to hike my dress up farther. I want him to reach down and unbutton his pants, to let his cock out and guide me toward it. I want him to explain to me how to take it in my hands, in my mouth, in my pussy, in my ass—

Except I barely even know how to fantasize about any of those things. I’m so inexperienced that it was only with Tyson’s touch that I could fantasize about being finger fucked— dreaming of having a cock in me, anywhere in me, feels as foreign as dreaming about flying. My eyes open gradually, my hand trails up to my stomach, across the scars from my transplants. I still feel heated and winded from the powerful orgasm I wish Tyson had actually drawn from me. But no. It’s just me. Touching myself in my bedroom. Thinking of a guy who, as far as I can tell, didn’t want to be seen with me. At a party I went to with my best friend who also, I suspect, also doesn’t really want to be seen with me anymore.

I’m responsible, steady, reasonable Anna Milhomme— same as I’ve always been. Trishelle has managed to reinvent herself in college, and shitty as that reinvention may be, I’m jealous of it.

I felt on the verge of that tonight, but it was all yanked away because of some guys with firecrackers. That girl who let an intimidating football player touch her, take over her body, make her moan…that girl is fearless. She’s not afraid of losing control. She can do anything.

But I’m not her, and it feels like I’ll never be.