I groan loudly and come hard.
I rest my forehead against the tiles for a minute as the aftershocks chase me. God, I wish she were here right now. I wish I could touch her all night long, spread her out on my bed, and bring her there.
Then spend the night with her.
Be the guy who doesn’t pay.
Be the guy she wants.
The guy she’s not set up with.
But I’ll never know if she wants me for me. Or because I’m part of her fix.
Memoirs of a Teenage Sex Addict…
Page 123…
I learned to lie from my mom.
When I was thirteen my mom and her boyfriend took me to a carnival in Great Neck out on Long Island.
His name was Pierre and he looked the name. He wore pressed khakis and a button-down short-sleeve shirt even in the summer, even to a carnival. He had manicured hands, his nails were buffed and filed in perfect half circles. He bought me pink cotton candy and handed it to me daintily with those hands that smelled of honeysuckle lotion. Then my mom spotted the carnival dude who guesses your age. If he comes within three years, you lose. If he doesn’t, you win a stuffed blue bear.
“Guess her age,” my mom said, thrusting me forward, taking the cotton candy out of my hands before he even saw it, in case it made me look too young. I wore low-rise jean shorts and a cami-tank. My hair was down, falling past my shoulders. I stood there for a moment before him, holding my ground, holding his gaze, like a cat staring down her prey before she pounced. Then I did what I knew mom wanted me to do. I tossed my hair ever so gently, ever so casually, but completely seductively. Like she’d taught me all those times when we prepped for our parties.
The Guess Your Age guy was young. He was a teenager, probably a high school guy working the carnival after school.
He appraised me up and down, his big, brown eyes on me, liking what he saw. He flashed his smile to my mom.“Write down her age.” He handed her a pen and piece of paper from a notebook in his back pocket. She dutifully wrote down my age, folded up the paper and handed it back to him. He took the paper but didn’t open it.
“She’s sixteen,” the carnival man declared.
Triumphant, my mom shook her head. “Thirteen,” she said proudly as he opened the paper to see my age. She ran a hand over my hair, petting her prize racehorse, and we walked away. She didn’t bother to get the blue bear she’d won. She got what she wanted. A thirteen-year-old who looked sixteen.
“He’s cute, don’t you think?”
“Mom,” I chided.
“He’s adorable, Harley,” she said in a teacherly tone. As if she were instructing me in the ways of taste and attraction. “He’s probably fourteen, maybe fifteen. You guys would be cute together.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely.” Then she lowered her voice. “We’re going on the Ferris Wheel. Go back and see him.”
Butterflies filled my belly. But she’d given the go-ahead. She’d encouraged me. This had to be the way the world worked.
When my mom and Pierre were up in the sky, I returned to the carnival guy. He leaned against the Guess Your Age sign, searching for his next customer. I tapped him on the shoulder.
“You were right,” I whispered near his ear.
His lips curled up. “You really are sixteen.”
“I really am sixteen.”
“Me too,” he said. “Good thing I didn’t give her a bear.”
“Good thing,” I echoed back.
He licked his lips slightly, tasting what I imagined was the salty heat on them from a muggy summer night. Then I gestured with my eyes to the nearby whack-a-mole and toss-the-ring games. Behind the games was a little hideaway spot, a private corner of the carnival world. There, against the dirty once-white concrete wall I reached out to him, my hand linking through his, bringing him closer to me. I lifted my other hand to his face, brushing my fingertips against his cheek.
I’d never kissed, I’d never been kissed, but somehow I was a natural. I was all instinct.
Later, when we were home, my mom asked me how it went.
I told her everything. Because, that’s what we did. That’s normal, right? She squealed and clapped. “Your first kiss!”
Then she gave me kissing tips for the next time. A lesson in seduction from my mother.
Chapter Seven
Harley
I sink into my pillow, practicing deep, calming breaths.
Reciting mantras Joanne taught me at SLAA.
This too shall pass.
The three-second rule.
Let the past be the past.
I lie flat and picture calm waters. Blue seas. Shining sun. A warm breeze. The beach I want to run off to. The ocean I want to carry me away from New York. The sand between my toes. Everything is peaceful in the world. My life is serene. Each day flows into the next and I go through life with a smile, a nod and a feeling of good will towards humankind.
There are no sirens, no email demands, no mothers who set you up, no fathers who leave you, no boys who run away from you when you throw yourself at them.
But that life is a lie. A pathetic, bald-faced fabrication and I don’t believe me for a second. There is no peace, there is no serenity, there is no happiness in love, and it’s as if someone or something cranked me up a notch, turned the timer on a once-dormant, now-ticking bomb inside me. I try to ignore the noise and the sound and the tightness in my body.
I pull the covers over my head and close my eyes, but I can’t sleep. Classes are nearly over, I have no more homework, I have no summer plans, I need something to do. I kick the sheets around a few times, flip on my back, then my stomach, even toss off the bedspread. I feel itchy, antsy. I clench and unclench my hands. I glance at my phone. It’s alive, calling out to me, whispering sweet nothings. Touch me. Put your fingers on me. Use me to deal.