He lifts me so that I straddle him. I’m nervous, but it must be those first-time nerves that never go away, no matter how old you are, no matter how much you know you should have done this by now. But why are the nerves only growing; why has my stomach skipped the calm and gone straight for the storm? I’m not sure if I …
* * *
We’re upstairs now, so focus on that.
Ben does feel nice, the kisses and his urgency.
His bed is really soft, so focus on that.
I feel cold when my clothes leave my skin and transparent when my underwear is off. It’s all happening so fast. I cross my legs—no, just relax—and Ben pulls them gently apart.
His hands are warm, so focus on that.
He’s heavier than I imagined. He knocks the air out of me.
I think we should stop, but I can’t say it and then he enters me and I bite my tongue. He gasps as I begin to shake.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, no, oh God, ouch, ouch. Too much. I want this to be over. I want this to be over.
It’s not the pleasure I’ve heard through thin walls or read about in books; it’s not even “not bad,” it’s a sharp pain that clamps my jaw shut, but in pain there is always a point of relief, and I wait for it, the point where I’m broken in or apart, but tears steep my eyes and my jaw aches. I tense when he stills and comes and leaves me.
I can breathe now, so focus on that.
Ben pants beside me, his cheeks red and his eyes closed.
I curl my toes and dig my nails into my palms. I stare at the ceiling, thinking of how I can dry my eyes without drawing attention. Can I lie and attribute the tears to great sex? Do people ever cry from pleasure? I decide on running to the toilet to pee when Ben takes my hand. He doesn’t say anything.
I lay there until he’s asleep. I should use the toilet anyway—I read that somewhere years ago.
I don’t switch on the light in case it’s anything like ours and makes a humming sound—I can’t remember if it did when I first used it. My chest aches and I whimper then choke but cover my mouth with my hand. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I almost slip on the toilet lid when I find Ben dribbling down my thigh.
“He didn’t use a condom,” I whisper.
I wipe my eyes. Do I feel like a grown-up, now? Do I feel like a woman of the world with a story I can share with other women; a tale that will serve as a bonding experience? I immediately know I don’t want to tell anyone about this, which doesn’t make any sense. What is the point of losing your virginity if not to fit in? It’s meant to go, like how puberty is meant to pass, like how you’re supposed to age. It has to happen, doesn’t it?
I poke at my body, waiting for something to feel different. I thought I would feel more evolved, more in control, my body a lone thinker, but instead I feel small and uneven, like I could tilt over at any point. This was the last piece of my body puzzle. My boobs have stopped growing and I will be this height for the foreseeable. I am both under-and overwhelmed.
Am I okay if I’m on the pill? Will tampons be easier to use now? My mum’s going to be furious if I get pregnant—what does God think of me now?
You’re being ridiculous.
Is Ben religious? Does he know that I am, what I call, a modern-day Christian, a Christian who wants to get into heaven without doing any of the dutiful stuff because surely believing in Him is enough of an entry requirement and it’s really hard to go to church every Sunday and then read the Bible every day too and not drink, smoke, have tattoos, gossip, lie, and watch TV and listen to music with none of the aforementioned. “Modern-day,” in this context, is also my own synonym for “shit.”
I should google if I’m going to get pregnant, but my phone is … I wore a dress with no pockets so … in my bag. Downstairs—in the kitchen, but I’m naked. I look down and my stomach’s formed rolls. Shit. But it’s flat when I’m on my back, right?
Who cares? Be a feminist, Maddie!
Can one be a feminist twenty-four seven?
I wrap a towel around myself and tiptoe downstairs for my phone. Without the lights on I bump into the sharp corner of the counter and cradle my bruising rib. I suddenly think, You’re in a stranger’s house.
I grab my phone and return to the bathroom.
Google: Can you get pregnant if you’re on the pill?
If taken correctly, at the same time every day, you’re 97% protected against pregnancy
Approx. 7 in 100 women a year get pregnant despite using the pill
Factors such as your estrogen and progesterone levels must be considered, alongside any medication you may be taking and any bouts of vomiting and/or diarrhea
The contraceptive pill is 99.6% effective
Okay, I think I’m safe. What are the chances I’d be part of the 0.4 percent? Getting pregnant the day you lose your virginity does sound like something that would happen to you.
Can I pee his come out? Is that why you’re meant to urinate after? No, Google says that’s to prevent UTIs.
Sex is currently presenting more cons than it is pros.
I eventually get back into bed and Ben stirs before pulling me onto his chest, kissing the top of my head. “Fuck, I didn’t use a condom, did I?”
“That’s okay. I’m on the pill.”
“How long have you been on?”
“Since I was sixteen.”
“Gotcha,” he whispers, and I can feel him smile against my temple.
“What?”
“Never mind.” He kisses me again and falls back to sleep.
* * *
The next morning, there’s a dull ache between my thighs as I walk to the kitchen.
Ben, dressed in sweats, has his back to me and is on the phone.
“Do we all have to go?” he asks whoever. “You’d better tell me the date again, then. Yes, I’ll be there, put me down with a plus-one. Yeah, she’ll want to come. Thanks, Mike. Bye.”
“Hi.”
He turns around and smiles. “Morning, Maddie.” With the heaviness of last night’s sleep weighing down his eyes and his hair untidy, he looks softer than the night before. “Come here.”
“That sounded important,” I say, walking over.
“The call? No, not really.” He kisses the top of my head and I take a seat on one of the barstools. Ben returns to the coffee he’s making and says, “I wasn’t sure whether to subject you to it. The CEO of my company’s birthday is coming up and he’s decided to throw a thing at the office.”
That sounds awful. “That sounds great.”
“It won’t be. It’ll be lavish and overstated and he’s denied two pay rise requests this month alone.” He pulls me close. “I’ve got you a plus-one, but I won’t be offended if you decide not to use it. If you don’t, maybe I’ll start coughing two days before and suddenly be too ill to attend.”
“No, I’d like to come.” I wouldn’t, but attending work events is a relationship thing, isn’t it? And this is a relationship now, right? “It’ll be fun.”
Ben smiles. “On your own head be it. I was just leaving for a run but wanted to give you something before.”
He hands me a pink rectangular box wrapped in a black ribbon. I suddenly wish I was wearing something other than his T-shirt.