“Are you ready?” he asked rather nervously, an apprehensive look on his face.
“I’m ready.” I replied, heart palpitating as my sweaty fingertips clasped his sheets. I lay in his bed, half dressed, ready for action. He sat next to me, a quaking skinny rake of a boy if ever I did see one. “Oh, Lord,” I thought to myself, “this had better be good.” I wasn’t even attracted to him. I just wanted to get laid. Hell, it had been 3 months since my boyfriend dumped me for another girl and I was on the rebound.
I tried to think sexy thoughts; just to get the engine started. But him quivering over me didn’t help.
He’d told me he wasn’t a virgin; he’d bragged loads of times in conversation about the hoards of girls that had thrown themselves at him. But he’d also told me he worked out, and, looking at his matchstick arms and his dry knobbly knees…well clearly that was a lie.
“I’ve been wanting to do this for a very long time,” he breathed.
“What, like your whole life?” I blurted out. Internally, of course. I wasn’t about to ruin the vital quick fix I’d so desperately been anticipating. But that’s not to say I was actually desperate; I’d say choosing him was more of a misjudgement. I would’ve settled for a one-night-stand in a club but Anton did seem like a pleasant guy. Although mind you, that was with his clothes on. And with a surname like Woodcock…damn my assumptions!
“I really like you, Vanessa,” he whispered, leaning towards me and hoping for a kiss. Please note, I said ‘hoping’. Rough stubble on his face, eyes all wide and shiny, nose scrunched up and crooked teeth on show, the boy looked like a rabbit.
“Turn off the lights,” I purred. As he did this, I took the opportunity to rustle around under the covers and get adjusted. He hopped back into bed and kissed me without warning. He scrambled on top of me like some wild, desperate coyote. My whole life flashed before my eyes. I looked out of the window as I tried to calculate my escape. But it was too late. He’d assumed the position and was just about to dive in when-
“Waait a minute,” I objected. “Put something on.” He knew what I meant. He apologised and I rolled my eyes as he did the necessary. I kissed my teeth quietly. The cheek of it.
Anton proceeded and I held my breath. Not with anxiety; but with suicidal intent. I thought I would have been anxious at this point, but all my sexual desires had vanished before I could leave with them. His chest hairs were sharper than barbed wire as he scratched along my soft, supple skin.
Squeezing his eyes shut and panting vigorously, he reminded me of The Little Engine That Could. I buttoned my lips to make sure I didn’t guffaw. His pumping technique was more than off-key; it looked like he was somewhere between doing press-ups and trying to do the breaststroke. What a rubbish experience. It didn’t feel that great; I’m not fond of chipolatas. I figured if I just stared at the ceiling hard enough, I might explode or something. No such luck. Oh, there was an explosion alright. And although it arrived promptly, I was at least anticipating a mutual climax. Had I known it would have been this dismal, I would have purchased that all-singing, all-dancing wonder-toy from Ann Summers when I had the chance.
I exhaled a sigh of relief as I put my clothes back on and tidied my hair. “I really have to go,” I mumbled (although definitely loud enough for him to hear). He had that dreamy look on his face that you get after a good session. I was jealous. I wanted that look. That’s what I bloody came here for. Ah, well. As I picked up my jacket and made for the door, he put his arms around my waist and kissed my ear. “Not so fast,” he gently whispered. Then he uttered the words that would haunt me forever:
“I’m gonna screw you again...”
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