The first time a girl told me to ejaculate on her face, I was fourteen. She looked right at me when she said it. She wasn’t talking to me, though. She was the star of a movie, but those maybe aren’t the right words. It’s not really a movie. It’s six minutes long and the title on the screen is “Brunette Deep Throat Blowjob With Facial.” I don’t even know if you’d call it a movie, and you wouldn’t really call the girl the star. I don’t know what you’d call her.
Alec and I send each other what we’re watching. I don’t know how it started and we never never talk about it. The only thing we do is reply one word if we like it. Hot. It’s like one of those things that predict what band you’ll like. He figured out I like stuff where the girl talks dirty. I figured out he liked two guys and one girl.
Everybody thinks something is hot.
Glasses, pigtails, busty, fat, shaved, browsing and then searching. On their knees looking up at the camera, waiting on the bed while I sit on mine, scrolling for suggestions for further viewing, captioned below. If you came watching this, you might also like two girls getting fucked in a car. Why yes I would.
Pants around the ankles, I learned this quick—take the ten seconds to not keep them that way. It’s one thing to tuck your shirt up out of your way, but pants end up locked around your shoes and you have to Frankenstein-walk someplace with your dick out hard in front of you like a doorknob. She always laughs and then you have to laugh too and pretend that you also are out of the mood for a few minutes. Don’t let it happen. I got to taking off my shoes the minute I’m hanging alone with a girl. Ready to go. Just in case.
It’s not like you’re even that hot, is what Jeremy says, Alec says it and other guys too, other versions of the same mystified complaint. And you get so much sex, while we all try and fail, and are in the parking lot watching you and the girl grab some chips from the store, on the way to go out into the nighttime and fuck and, what I’m wondering is, are they all really trying? Or are they just thinking about it, staring alone at a dream that pops into no one else’s head. Because this isn’t that. You can dream up anything you want, but for actually having sex with actually a girl you have to move. You can think, you can know, that girls are a mystery, but put it this way: there are things to do, moves you can make. Meet her, talk to her, laugh with her, nuzzle, handhold, walk somewhere, eat something, by now you’ve kissed a lot. Kiss more, kiss wilder, kiss the neck, collarbone. Rub against, rub with, hands on the bare waist, the back, the breasts. Guide her hands, the first time you come with her, with the gasp and meeting her eyes. Go down on her. Go down on her naked. Go down on her with fingers inside. Go down on her holding her legs open. Keep asking if she likes it, keep asking what else you can do, until she gets the idea and asks you back. You’re naked by now. Sit up naked and rest her head in your lap. It feels so good and say so. Come hard. Kiss her right after to say, of course we still kiss, of course we are going to keep doing this. You can do this. Move slow the first five times. Find a way in. Fuck fuck fuck. Buy her a stuffed animal.
—Cole, you’re getting a rep.
Sophomore year Kristen tells me this. She is sometimes my friend, definitely the reason I’m not flunking Chemistry, fearless with jokes, saying this next to me on a bench after sitting down like it was a professional meeting, a therapy session.
—A rep?
—It’s short for reputation.
—Um, thanks for explaining that.
—You are going after girls.
—What?
—You heard me, Cole. Too many—
—Too many girlfriends? Is there some allotment? National statistic?
—It’s not girlfriends, Cole. You go after them and people are talking.
—People?
—And you don’t treat them like people.
—What?
—The girls. You sleep around.
I look at her. She’s not bad looking, although the hair, somebody should intervene. She’s part of a small pack of girls I’d never tangle with. Last year at the Holiday Formal they were standing outside the ballroom and I thought they were protesting it, so fierce were their faces with not having a good time. She is, I’m realizing, a good spy for me, a weather report from rooms I’m not allowed in.
—OK, I’m not a virgin, yeah.
—I’m not talking about sex, Cole. I’m talking about how it’s one girl, and then it’s another. You’re getting a rep.
—OK.
—OK what?
—OK what do you want me to say, Kristen?
I’m on the bench for no reason, the bus having tossed me at school early. But, across the horrible lawn, three girls are practicing a dance something. She can’t even see it, right across from us, three delicious girls, and if I went up and told one of them that I liked how she moved— Kristen is looking at me like I’m a plume of smoke in the kitchen, right before you yell fire! —You don’t care that people think it’s sleazy. You’re going to keep up with it.
—What’s wrong with going out with girls? Go yell at girls, if you think it’s wrong. Why does it bother you anyway, it sounds like you’re— I’m smart enough to stop talking but not smart enough, not quick enough.
—You think I’m jealous?
We’re both laughing now, but only a little bit. —No, but Kristen, why do you care?
—You can be infuriating, Cole. I’m trying to help you.
She walks off. She’s a virgin, I’m realizing. Some guy is going to go after her and then she won’t wonder if the sex is worth it, because she’ll be busy, instead of analyzing me, having sex. But not, for sure, with her hair like that.
Arya liked to read a lot. We’d go one round and then lie on the floor, her parents’ clock ticking, and I’d hand her her book and I’d take one she’d recommended. Finish the chapter, start up with her cheek and neck and ears until she’d sort of sigh and find a bookmark and round two. I read a lot with her, that’s one thing. Ballad of the Sad Café. Not bad, but she liked it better than me.
Amelie, she was crazy breathless Jesus Christ beautiful. In the light blue dress stepping out of the mall through a revolving door it was light and miraculous like a moonbeam in a Japanese ghost story video game. Her hair was wispy on the back of her smooth neck, I didn’t even want to touch her, it was so beautiful. But, you know, I did.
I taught Alana how to skip rocks, with my hand over her hand with the stone in it, like that. Also on a park bench, dark without wind kicking dirt on us, I taught her to make me come, basically the same way. You’re getting the hang of it. You’re a natural.