Authors: Jim Cunneely
“Maggie tells me that she has orgys all the time,” is how the text reads one evening that Dana is at work while I’m sitting on the floor playing with my kids. Maggie is Talia’s best friend. Talia complains often that all of her friends are being alienating by keeping our secret.
Each time she lays that pseudo guilt trip on me I tell her, “Do what you have to do. I can’t ask you to keep it a secret.”
I don’t reflect on it until after the words have left my mouth, but the thought of asking her to keep something so big makes me feel ugly. I obsess over the decision to take such a cavalier attitude regarding her confidentiality. Times when I’m close to revisiting the topic I feel the aching reminder that I’m controlling the extension of my psychological world where Natalia represents me and I don’t like that. I neither tell, nor ask, nor manipulate her to lie to anyone. If she chooses to keep it a secret, then it is by her choice not my prompting.
“What do you mean she has them all the time?” I ask, “With who?”
“With Tommy.”
Tommy is Maggie’s boyfriend, also a student of mine. Her text confuses me. I don’t understand why she would tell me this and what bearing it has on anything.
I ask, “Um, why are you telling me?”
“I want to have orgys too.”
After a long moment of reflection it finally occurs to me that she doesn’t know what an orgy is. I come to this conclusion only after ruling out other, more uncomfortable possibilities.
I ask, “What do you mean by orgies?” Hoping she will recognize the correct plural form.
“You know, like she comes a lot when her and Tommy have sex,” she clarifies.
A weird feeling overcomes me for participating in this conversation. There are myriad moments like this where the gulf between her mind and mine seems larger. Some topics are logical and she takes the correction in stride, but others I can tell she feels inferior no matter how gently I handle them. Since my own children are too young, I can only imagine the correct tone with which to discuss sex.
“Oh you mean she has a lot of orgasms?” trying to ease any potential embarrassment.
“Oh, I guess. Whatever it’s called,” she tersely replies. “Well I want to have orgasms too,” turning the discussion sharply.
“How would you like to have one?” I ask. I have already offended her so I let her guide the conversation.
She tells me, “I don’t care, I just want you to make me come.” I’m taken aback by how candid she is.
“Well we should have this conversation then, but not through texting,” I say, hoping to table the discussion until a much later date. I know the only outcome and am exclusively to blame. I allowed thoughts to hang between us that cemented a path toward this collision. Putting an end to it now will only rightfully cause confusion.
She wastes no time, broaching it at the beginning of our next telephone conversation. The necessary discussion even more
uncomfortable than I anticipated. She relies on me to make decisions and provide guidance on topics that are simply unnatural.
Before we even talk about logistics she tells me, in no uncertain terms, “Jimi, I want to lose my virginity and I want you to take it.” It upsets me even more that after her initial declaration she resorts to using the sophomoric term, “V card,” whenever she refers to her virginity. I try to dissuade her, knowing full well that the more I try to convince her otherwise the more tantalizing I am, looking out for her best interest. The discussion fizzles this time and no details surface, only an insight into what will come.
“I can’t wait to give you my V card,” is the text I receive as soon as we hang up the phone.
There is a sensation I haven’t felt in years as I sit on the couch in the same room with my wife when Natalia texts me questions about sex. I feel a nagging obligation to accept a sense of betrayal but somehow nothing soaks into the correct places. Nothing digs at me enough to stop. No chinks appear in the shield I have placed around my consciousness. Questions arrive such as, “Do you have sex a lot? Do you jerk off? How big is your penis? How many people have you had sex with? What’s your favorite position?”
None of my responses have their root in honesty. I answer, from my negotiable-self, what sounds best to drive the conversation that I want to have, or more specifically the one I think she wants.
At first, I deflect, “I’m not sure that’s something we should be discussing.” She fires back with all of the anger that she can convey over a text, “Well you’ve already kissed me and fingered me so I didn’t think you minded if I asked you about sex.” I stop resisting. I talk about positions, habits, past partners and everything she asks.
“Will you give me oral sex?” she asks frankly. I’m embarrassed as I read her question. She asks clumsily, as someone without experience.
“Ummmmm, idk Talia. That’s a big step and although you may want it now, in the moment you may feel differently,” I respond.
“NOOOO I know that I want you to do oral sex on me,” she contests.
I squirm even though no one else is reading, like listening to a non-native English speaker try to speak intelligibly. It’s easy to determine the gist of what is being said but the small refining points that create fluency are missing.
“Well, I’m not saying that I’m not willing but I’m not saying yes either. Next time we’re in the situation I’ll let you tell me for sure,” I think is a good enough placation.
I’m incorrect.
“What should I say if I’m ready?” she asks. I try to balance what will sound good but harsh enough to dissuade her from repeating. I avoid being raunchy while trying to sound legitimate.
“Jim, kiss me all over,” is the best I can do.
One evening while teaching my college class, not long after our first day of hooky I receive a text, “Can we have a day together again? No weed just a day.” My heart jumps. I don’t care about the marijuana. I just want to see her too and am happy she wants the same.
“Sounds great. When?” I reply.
“ASAP!!”
Skipping another day of camp will be tricky, I have to not only pass Sr. Karen but Dana again. The more that I think about the likelihood, I realize it’s impractical.
On my way home after class I call Natalia, “Listen, I don’t think that I can skip work for a whole day. I’m pretty sure that I can take off in the morning but I have to be back by lunch,” I explain. Her long silence tells me she’s unhappy with my compromise.
“Well, I don’t care for how long, I just want to see you,” she says, relieving me of the immediate burden. I suspect that since we recently discussed oral sex she is impatient to move to that level.
As soon as I arrive at work I ask Sr. Karen if I can go to school to interview a potential candidate. She knows I’m the Lead Teacher for the World Language Department and has no reason to question my honesty. I don’t even tell Dana because she works in a different part of the camp and we only cross paths at lunch. I plan accordingly and leave hoping that she doesn’t even notice my absence.
I leave camp and drive immediately to Talia’s. She is already waiting when I pull into the cul-de-sac behind her complex. We head straight for my house knowing that we don’t have much time. She chats about nothing in particular while choosing familiar songs from my iPod. When we near my house I run through the same list of fears. Luckily, my street is again empty, only momentary relief.
The mental gymnastics of my life are so very trying. Nothing provides respite, nothing is ever restful and each diversion only sheds light on the multitude of other decisions to be made. The reward for every risk is the compulsion to take more risks. The behavior resulting from this mental breakdown has the potential to cause a mental breakdown.
Seconds after I close the front door she pulls my arm and kisses me with her mouth wide open. I move toward the couch
where we previously spent all of our time but when she realizes, pulls her lips from mine and says, “Can we go to your bed instead?”
Without truly contemplating the significance I say mindlessly, “Yes,” and we walk into my bedroom. The house is muggy with the air conditioning off, so I turn on the ceiling fan while she sits on the foot of the bed. When I turn and face her she looks young, her hair still wet from the shower, her legs swinging a few inches short of the floor. My initial reaction to seeing her on my bed is that her entire comportment is juvenile but I block reality. I walk to the bed and stand in front of her, she takes both of my hands and pulls me on top as she lays back.
This is the first time that we have been on a bed together. It’s the first time we have been anywhere beside the back seat of my car or couch. I have only my right leg between hers but she presses against me in a way that asks me to let her spread her legs. Despite my clear hesitation she pushes harder so I shift my weight and her near leg moves underneath.
Her legs are now spread and my pelvis rests on hers. She sighs and arches her hips up into mine. The pressure feels good, overriding my conscience. She stops kissing and cranes her neck as if looking straight over her head. I take the opportunity to kiss where my lips rest. Neck leads to clavicle which leads to another startling, physical reaction. She thrusts her hips upward once again and moans an audibly nasal and disturbing sound.
We play this game for over an hour where I kiss a spot that sends waves of pleasure through her body and she replies. We discover certain things about her erogenous zones simultaneously. I reach as far south as her navel, stopping to play with the dangling butterfly on her belly button ring. I wander back up her
body before reengaging her lips again as if my time elsewhere created hunger.
She only allows the kiss to last briefly before she stops, takes a deep breath and whispers, “Jimi, kiss me all over,” in an aspirated, nervous voice.
The words she uses are exactly as I instructed, yet somehow she still shocks me. The state of dissociative denial in which I exist leaves me incredulous that she has chosen to take this step. I try not to seem anxious, meandering back down her body, stopping at all the junctures where I made mental notes. When I reach her jean shorts I move right over them to her thighs. As I work my way around warm, tan legs I begin undoing the button and zipper. First over one hip, then the second. I trace the line of her thong, kissing newly exposed skin, making a concerted effort to push through my crippling arousal. The reality of this moment is taking hold and my tattered sanity is crumbling.
On my way to work this morning I had a feeling I would find myself in this situation and my primary concern was how I was going to react to being this intimate with someone so young. Apparently, all conscious thoughts regarding my conscience conveniently take place out of the moment. In the instant where decisions can affect outcomes, I am absent.
Withdrawal is the crutch I wield to bridge all uncomfortable gaps. Right now I’m so far out of the realm to act with any adult responsibility that the echo of, “Holy shit, this is so fucking hot,” is uncontested in the forefront of my mind.
I work my way to the tiny swath of material meant to cover her virginity. As I work my way in shrinking concentric circles I feel her hips spasm with intensity. I kiss gently, through the fabric. I pause less than an instant as I wonder if she showered this morning or if I simply notice the scent of adolescence, a
sensation I was never exposed to in my own. There is nothing unpleasant, only registering in my mind.
Her hands are folded intently on her stomach, knuckles pale white from how tightly she squeezes. She startles me when she tears them apart and grabs each of the thin strings that join the front of her panties to the smaller piece in the back.
She removes her last article of clothing as she moans deeply, “Take these off me, now.”
I grab the last vestige keeping her shielded from my manipulation, pull it down her body around and over her feet. Natalia is naked and I am frozen. She lays still, eyes closed except for the heaving of her chest. When curiosity overcomes her and she wonders why nothing is happening she opens them. She looks appalled as if the gravity of the moment has hit her and immediately hides again. I cannot think about why she has closed her eyes so awkwardly so I pick up where I left off.
I engage in the same game I played with her entire body earlier but this time on a smaller scale. I explore what makes her feel best and concentrate my effort there. Everything has an equal reaction. She builds to a crescendo, but from nothing I can determine, until she finally collapses in a limp surrender to exhaustion and climax.
I kiss my way back up the center of her body and lay down watching for feedback. She remains motionless trying to catch her breath, keeping her hands in the same position, interlaced over her navel. With neither warning nor reservation she jumps on top of me. She straddles my knees and undoes the fabric belt on my shorts, fumbling either from nerves or inexperience.
With my pants just below my crotch she pulls them off almost angrily. She tries to do too much and has her hands and mouth too busy to be able to feel any of what she is trying to accomplish.
I’m exactly the opposite of her in this supine position, unable to close my eyes. I recognize this for exactly the horror show it is, there is a teenage girl performing oral sex on me. What do I do now? I fear that stopping her will be a terrible blow to her ego. There is no completion to this aside from the one I’m sure she is expecting but even that, if it were possible is out of the question.
When I take her shoulders and gently pull up, she darts her eyes at me. The look on her face drives me to the brink of a wretch. She looks in pain, panting and squinting from the stress.
“What?” she says impatiently through gasps.
“Come here hon,” I feel deplorable.
“What’s wrong?” she resists.
“Nothing,” I assure as I position her next to me, cradling my arm underneath. When she’s close enough, I kiss her to divert attention from what just occurred at the lower half of my body.
She falls right into place in the new act I have unwittingly authored so much so that after just a few minutes she pulls me on top. She walks her kisses along my cheek, to my jaw, my ear, then whispers, “Jimi, make love to me.”