The moon was the only light in the tiny room on the lower floor of my sisters townhouse. There were blinds on the window that had a few missing slats and depending on what time of night it was, you could feel the light hit your face and expose you. The lacquered bed posts were cool to the touch and the spindled design cast a tapered shadow on the wall. The ledge under the window kept my 15 pack of Du Maurier lights and an almost over flowing ashtray and the room smelled of stale smoke and camping gear.
He'd walk in with a cool attitude and immediately light a smoke. The way he lit a cigarette turned me on. He would take one from the pack between his thumb and middle finger and place it between his lips. It was almost the only gentle thing about him. Bringing the flame to the tip, he'd get it in place and look in my direction. Through the flame and through the smoke he'd squint his eyes and suck in his cheeks to draw the first drag. He'd rest his hand on his thigh with the cigarette between the knuckles on his right hand and exhale first through his nose, then through his mouth.
Eventually he'd lie down on the bed and ask me to get closer while putting his arm around my waist and pulling me to him. He wore a heavy, metal belt buckle I could eat a small snack off of and a leather belt that slung low on his hips. There's something delicious about that part of a man's body. The way it curves right at the hip bone and moves slightly as he walks. He was quite tall against my five feet four inches. His skin seemed to have a year long tan and his neck was thick. My favorite spot on him was right in the middle of where his clavicle bones meet and the muscles of your neck meet your chest. He wore a chain that would rest nicely in the divot and I could see the beating of his heart as it sat there.
The night I chose to have him win my virginity was the last night I'd ever see him. Up until that point I thought he enjoyed my company, I thought he cared and I thought he wanted...me. He was no longer a stranger. He was no longer some guy that came for long visits and sleepovers. He was the one I thought should own this part of me. He made me laugh and he certainly made me cry. I hated how he was so quiet. He hated that I gave him blue balls. He knew it wasn't an easy decision for me. He knew how much I loved him. He made me trust him.
Every little piece of that night lives vivid in my mind. He picked me up in a blue van that had manual transmission on the steering column and rusty floor boards. It was deathly cold outside and the heater was broken. We drove to my sisters new place and the first thing I did was light a cigarette. The night was young and had no time constraints or curfews. He had his arms around me as we watched TV and chatted while we drank beer. The bedroom was off the living room and I knew eventually we'd end up there for a heavy make-out session.
It started off with a kiss that was just as lovely as the last time. He used to tell me every time he kissed me how soft my lips were. His lips were soft too but the 5 o'clock shadow made the skin around my lips raw and red. He picked me up and moved me to the bedroom and kicked the door shut with his foot. I could see his outline with help from the sliver of light that shone through the bottom of the door. He was beautiful. I could see his brilliant smile through the darkness. I could feel his hard body getting harder. I could smell the natural, wonderful scent on his skin. I could taste the bead of sweat on his lip and feel the fire in his touch. He knew my world was about to change. He knew as he took off each piece of my clothing that the young woman I was, will no longer be. I cry when I think about the moment he slowly moved over me. I felt safe as he intertwined his hands in mine and asked me if I was ok. He made me feel beautiful, ugly, stripped and important. He moved into me and I gasped for air. There were no acrobatic positions. It was him and me. Breathing. Pushing. Sweating. Touching. I wanted it to stop. I wanted him to stay in me. I wanted him to tell me he loved me. I wanted it to stop. I wanted it to stop hurting me. I could feel my body release. He kissed me hard and again, asked if I was ok. I said yes in a soft, embarrassed voice. I panicked when he got up to go to the washroom. I knew there was blood. I knew he'd see it. I wanted more.
It was done and over before it began. It sits ever present in my head. Some one that took so much and gave so little. I'm stuck with that forever.