chloé [home]
orlando, florida, blonde, blue eyes, catholic, pale, underweight
writingHe said he first spoke to me because I was my age and I was holding a very big book. These things impressed him, and he was even more impressed that the book was The Fountainhead. He asked me if I understood what I was reading. I told him I didn’t understand his question, and he laughed but I didn’t feel in on the joke.
He drove me around in his very nice red car. My parents didn’t drive like him, and I thought I liked it even though it frightened me. He would play Videotape by Radiohead, he would play Angels by the XX, he would play Lolita by Lana Del Rey.
He came inside my house without my parents permission, I was a good kid who was too afraid to ask. I showed him my room, my video games, my toys, my books. He squatted and scanned over my bookshelf until he grunted in a noise I took for satisfaction. He asked me how old I was when I had read these. I told him I was eleven, twelve, thirteen. He smirked at me and reminded me I didn’t understand what I was reading and I felt my skin get hot.
I showed him Metropolis and I hoped he was impressed. I tried watching the movie but I kept thinking, I hope this impresses him. A 14 year old knows Metropolis. He likes sci-fi, he is wise beyond his years and this makes me want to have sex with him. The kind of sex my omegle friends could have never given me. Because I was 12, and he was 26, and he was 24, and he was 22, and they would have driven to me but had a major moral epiphany somewhere near Gainesville and turned back home.
After school I would ride my bike to his house. It was far but not far enough, and I would feel something I didn’t understand every time a truck passed me going 45. I did this until my brother crashed my bike into a tree during a seizure, which I chose to blame his carelessness for.
We didn’t see each other for awhile, he was too busy to drive to me and I understood that. He had responsibilities I couldn’t begin to fathom. One day after school he found the time to pick me up. I told my friends about him, about his car, how they should watch from a distance.
On his bed he pulled his laptop up and put on a movie I hadn’t seen. I felt nervous in his room, so I tried to focus on the film. I tried to count the stripes on Michael Cera’s shirt. I tried to estimate the total calories Ellen Page drank in orange juice. I was trying to read a billboard in the background when he shifted my body, pulling my face up to his.
“I’m going to fuck you,” he said to me, “Okay?”
I told him I was scared. He asked if I meant that in a good way and I was confused. He laughed and told me not to be. He gave me two pills, he gave me 151 to wash them down. I asked him what the 151 stood for and he laughed at me again before kissing me.
He pushed my head down. I put him in my mouth. As some sort of joke to myself and to appease him, I begin to fake cry. I whimper and choke and feel something change. He tells me not to pretend to cry. If he wants me to cry I will. I put my head back down, my face hot, my body shaking. We move, our bodies shift, and we move again. It hurts and I close my eyes and think about the movie Juno. I forget everything when he puts his hands on my wrists and tells me to fight back. I push lightly, he looks disappointed in me. This makes me sick to my stomach.
He picks me up and puts me on a desk chair. I cum all over myself, my entire torso is covered. This was not supposed to happen. He hates me now, he thinks something is wrong with me. I look at his face, and he is non-verbally telling me this is wrong and I should be ashamed. I blush. I am red and white and white, and I need to leave.
“That’s so hot. So Sean Cody,” he says. I don’t know who that is so I giggle and feel no longer afraid.
He got a towel, he wiped me off. I felt loved and cared for and dizzy. He told me he couldn’t drive me home, he had somewhere to be after this. I asked him where and he smiled and shook his head. I told him I could walk home, I didn’t want to be bothersome.
He touched my cheek and then my chin and said, “and that’s what I like so much about you.” It was quiet until I left.
It was hot out. I started to run. I thought to myself, the wind feels so strong. I thought to myself, the trucks pass right there. I thought to myself, some summers last forever, I miss your house parties, I love you but I guess I’m a shitty person. And I felt like I should cry but I wasn’t, so I started to whimper, imagining that the noise alone would force the rest of my face to submit to this new state. But your words echoed, don’t pretend to cry. So I stopped but I kept running.
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