My Soon-To-Be Sex Life

To those enduring the long goodbye.

If I'd been looking for a specific cue to tell me the time was right, you know, random fireworks lighting up the night sky, a Barry White tune crooning from the radio, or even a simple, undeniable rush of pure lust…

This definitely wasn't it.

Tyler's hand worked my boob like he expected milk.

“Sweet Jesus,” I gasped, pulling away from his slick lips, “there's foreplay, and then there's unnecessary roughness.” Sometimes I had to dumb things down for Ty, use his native tongue – footballian. Plus, I could barely breathe with him pressing me down into worn leather.

Minutes ago his body had seemed all mysterious angles and subtle warmth, but now his closeness was overwhelming. Oppressive. I resisted the urge to push against those strong shoulders instead of pulling them closer.

My cell phone rang. I mean it literally sounded like a good old-fashioned telephone ringer. So I knew it was
her
. Just the distraction I secretly craved and yet…I scrambled into a near-seated position, Ty wedged between my aching legs. For a linebacker, he sure forgot to utilize his other muscles when his dick was in charge.

The phone rang again, loud even muffled by my ass. “Get off!” I bucked my hips. One thing was certain; supporting two hundred pounds of randy boy in the narrow cab of a truck gave you quite the inner thigh workout. “I'm sitting on it. You know what she'll do if I don't answer…”

“Come on, Charlie.” Ty crawled off me and sprawled out along my side. He cupped the hard-on straining against his jeans. “You can't leave me like this.”

“Ah, the plea women have heard since the dawn of time.” Seriously? He was really going there? Next he'd be telling me his junk would fall off if he didn't
get
off. I grabbed my phone. “A girl's rite of passage.” I flipped it open. “Thanks for that.”

“Thanks for what?” my mother said in a flat tone, which had nothing to do with lousy reception behind the abandoned wheat pool elevator, and everything to do with her charming personality. Plus the fact that she popped an anti-anxiety pill the moment she felt a genuine emotion coming on.

“Who're you with this time?” she asked. “I hope it's not Tyler Gribbons. The only thing you should thank
him
for is a life lesson. And it goes like this…Boys who play with balls in school can't keep their hands out of their pants.”

I turned my back to Ty, whose hand had, indeed, slid down the front of his jeans.

“What's up?” I leaned over the front seat, turned down the radio, and checked the time on the dashboard. “It's only nine fifty. You said I could stay out till ten.” The curfew was yet another way my mother attempted to de-stress her life and wreak havoc with mine. She didn't like having to worry about me staying out late, parting with friends, and being out on the streets in the wee morning hours. Since Dad died, she'd become hyper vigilant, pulling double duty in the parenting department. It was maddening. I mean, even Cinderella had until midnight.

But in this instance, I was kind of relieved to have an excuse to bail.

Not that I was chickening out. But the backseat?

I could do better.

Ty tugged at a belt loop on my jeans.

“Are you wearing a thong?” he whispered. He tugged harder. “Shit! Standard white cotton.”

I smacked his hand, plunked down into the seat.

“You're with Tyler, aren't you? Don't lie to me. I heard his voice. Besides, Rachel just called looking for you.”

Crapola. I made a gun with my fingers, put them to my temple and fired. “Really?” I tried to play the scene as innocently as possible. Tried to channel my inner method actor. I'm innocent.
Innocent.
“Isn't that strange.”

“Uh huh, strange. You should have told her the plan more than once. You know how forgetful that girl is.”

Why did I bother with Rachel? She was always screwing up. I gave her the perfect plotline before we left school. “If anyone asks, I'm at your house watching movies. If my mom calls and wants to speak to me, tell her I'm in the ladies, and then call me - so I can call her back on my cell. Got it?” And then Roach goes and
calls my house
looking for me?

“You have eight minutes,” Mom said. “If I don't see Gribbons' sorry excuse for a truck pulling into our driveway…”

Another failed attempt, but it wasn't disappointment that made it easier to breathe as Ty revved the engine and fishtailed down the back road, skiffs of snow billowing in our wake.

I thought about the many books on screenwriting I'd borrowed from the public library over the last year, the ones I practically inhaled in order to teach myself to write scripts. Great scripts that might just get me out of this town someday.

They all talked about it. The inciting incident. The one thing that changes the main character's life has to happen in the first few minutes and yet here I was
three weeks
into focused, plotted, storyboarded dating – and I was still a virgin.

Life really was stranger than fiction.

You couldn't make this shit up.

“Mom, I'm home,” I called out from the mudroom. I waited a moment, but when there was only silence, I sighed and set about de-weatherizing. She was probably pissed. Heavy winter boots dangled from my hands as I knocked them together, sending chunks of snow flying. When the worst was gone, I dumped the boots upside down overtop a copper grate in the floor.

I tried again, louder. “Don't pout. I'm fifteen minutes late, so sue me.” I hung my coat on one of the iron nails jutting from the wall and pushed the screen door open into the kitchen. I expected Mom to be sitting at the table, waiting to ream me out.

But she wasn't there.

“Mom, I'm home. Just like I promised. Where are you?” A niggling of unease had my voice higher pitched, sounding young and panicked even to my own ears.

Stupid. Should have stayed home and kept her busy lecturing me about school, or telling me those same old stories about when she first met Dad and how they'd been so in love.

But I'd decided to go out with Ty and get away from the house. Leaving Mom with nothing to take her mind off things.

I found her asleep in the den, sitting upright in her favorite wingback chair, an open book about to fall from her lap. Just like the good old days.

I used to find her in Dad's favorite recliner, before we'd had that yard sale where we got rid of a lot of his stuff. She'd sit in that beast of a chair for hours, watching our old family vacation videos, watching us laugh across the screen, rewinding the bit where dad pretended to be a bear and attacked my tent, snuffling and growling until I tore out and ran shrieking to the car. She'd been holding the camera and my outraged face shook with her laughter. Then I'd buckle and start laughing too.

We hadn't always been like this. Snarking at each other. Fighting over every little thing. Bitter. Sad.

Those videos proved it.

Mom would wait for a close up, punch a button with her knuckle, and stare at him, alternately crying out his name, and then bitching about the crazy pause lines cutting the screen in half. I kept telling her she should get them transferred to DVD. Maybe it was better that she never got around to it.

How long would she have cried if his image, at least, had been flawless?

It took a few tries to wake her, then more coaxing to guide her down the hall. She shrugged my arm from her shoulder and slipped into her room.

I stared at the door she'd shut behind her.

“Night.” I listened hard, but couldn't tell if she offered a response. I moved further down the hall to my room, scuffing my sock feet on the cold wood floor– all the while renewing my vow to never end up like her.

And I wouldn't.

As long as I stuck to the script.

After school the next day, I sought solace at the side of my best friend. Roach and I had been hanging out since the fourth grade. Before the Dunmores moved to town I hadn't bothered making friends. Or rather, the few girls I'd tried to be friends with had ended up hating me and avoiding me in the hall. Good thing I was an only child and used to relying on my own twisted sense of humor to keep me company.

Then I'd stumbled in on Roach stealing dry erase markers from Mrs. Healey's desk. She hadn't tried to hide what she was doing, she even offered me one, but I declined. I also hadn't ratted her out, although I'd been debating on doing exactly that when I overheard Jonas Michaels telling some other boy that Rachel Dunmore's father was a minister.

Imagine that. A preacher's daughter stealing from the teacher on her first day of school. I'd caught up with Roach as she walked home. We were headed the same way.

“Why did you snag those markers?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I like to steal little things here and there, for the challenge, you know? Keeps life interesting.”

I matched my steps to hers. “But I heard you were religious.”

“What's wrong? Scared it's catchy?” She stopped and faced me. “I heard you're a real bitch.”

It was my turn to shrug. “I don't mean to be. Not all the time. My mom says I don't have filter. It gets to people after awhile.”

“It won't get to me.” Roach started walking again. “And if it does, I'll just tell you to shut up.”

“My family isn't into organized religion.” I confessed. “I've never been to church.”

Roach laughed. “Don't worry, I won't try to convert you.” She pursed her lips. “But if I do, just tell me to--”

“Shut up,” I finished her sentence.

We'd been best friends ever since.

Now I paced the confines of Roach's Jesus-loves-you inspired bedroom while she reclined on her bed and stroked a third coat of
Prudish Pink
onto her ingrown toenail.

“I don't think you're really as eager to lose it as you think you are.” Roach swiped at a gloop of pink that dropped onto her comforter. “You could even be knocked up by now if you applied yourself.”

I could always count on Roach to call me on my bullshit, but today, that wasn't what I needed. This was my time to regroup, regain some clarity, and proceed as planned. “Squeezing out puppies isn't the goal here, Roach, stay focused. Once, Ty was too drunk. Then, Aunt Flow was visiting and when you think about it, the act itself is going to be messy enough without gratuitous bloodshed. There are reasons this mission has gone awry. Valid reasons.”

“THE DEVIRGINIZERS”

OUTTAKE #1: JEDI CAN'T KISS

INTERIOR. BOWLING ALLEY. NIGHT.

COLIN, 16, flicks the “Sorry We're Closed” sign on with a wide grin. He kills time stacking neon glowing balls onto a rack while CHARLIE removes her rent-a-foot-disease bowling shoes and puts on her own clunky boots.

She stands.

Colin approaches, leans in to plant a sloppy kiss. There's a lot of tongue. Charlie pulls her face out of reach.

CHARLIE

Okay, that was
not
pleasant. We have to stop.

I'm really sorry about the chip in the lane.

I hope your boss doesn't notice. I don't think I'm cut out for intense sports like neon bowling.

COLIN

(Yoda voice)

Do or do not. There is no try.

CHARLIE

Still with the Star Wars references. Doesn't that get old after a few hours?

Colin smiles, then whips out a foil packet from his back pocket. The thing is already glowing under the black lights.

CHARLIE

Is that what I think it is? You fanboys have a shitload of confidence.

COLIN

My lightsaber is yours. Do with it as you will.

(waves hand with grave intent)

You want the lightsaber. You desire it with every fiber of your --

She ducks under his arm and beelines for the exit.

CHARLIE

Your Jedi mind tricks don't work on me, remember?

(pauses at door)

See you in drama?

COLIN

(opening package anyway)

Sure, whatever.

END OF OUTTAKE

“In the movie of my life,” I said, “I'm going for an R rating, not a snuff film. Besides, you can't question my commitment.” I paused as Roach held up her foot and admired her polishing skills. “My timing? Now that's debatable. ”

Before Roach could get a word in, I held up my hand. “I could go to any house party, get totally shitfaced and let the first guy I stumble over do the deed, but then I'm just letting it happen
to
me. I want more than that. There's so much in life we can't control.” Like parents cheating, getting themselves killed, or having to go to rehab. Like being shuffled around to live with someone who has been on the outside of your life for years. Or giving your heart away and then having it smashed to bits. “But this? I want full awareness and ownership of that moment.”

Roach leaned back on her pillows and wriggled her toes for some air-dry magic. She didn't have to say anything. It was all there in her scrunched up nose and the tightening of her lips. She rebelled from time to time, hated the rules and good-girl expectations her parents heaped on her, but you couldn't grow up around that stuff without buying into some of it.

And the purity issue was a great debate of ours.

“You think I should save myself for my true love, and fork over the goods on my wedding night?” I asked. “Well, sorry if I'm tromping on your religious hymenical beliefs, but my mom travelled that road and she'd do it a whole lot differently if a time vortex do-over landed in her lap.”

Roach's toes froze mid wriggle. “She'd go back and screw the entire football team. Is that what you're saying?”

“Yeah, maybe.” What was I saying? Ugh. I waved away the icky mental images. “Scratch that. But what good did all the waiting and saving herself do when it turned out that during their entire marriage my dad was servicing the neighborhood desperate housewives, as well as being a gold card member at Hookers-R-Us massage?”

“That's what this is all about, isn't it?” Roach sat up, fixing me with a knowing stare. I hated her damn knowing stares. “Your dad made mistakes, big ones. But that doesn't mean you have to.”

“Do you see what you just did right there?” I slapped my hands against the sides of my jeans. “You're coming awful close to the edge of preachy, Roach.”

“God forbid.”

Time to hit her with my supporting argument. The one I'd told myself again and again. “Leading Google searches say most girls lose it by the age of sixteen. I'm seventeen, Roach. If it's going to happen any second anyway, I just want to be smart about it. I want to do it on my terms. Hell, if a guy was out to lose it, there'd be friends cheering him on, making bets, and lots of the wink, wink, nudge, nudge.” I sucked in an offended breath. “A girl wants to and everyone suddenly needs to know,
why?
Didn't we already have a sexual revolution?”

For a second, Roach held her tongue and I thought I had her convinced.

She began plucking the tissue out from between her toes. “I'm just saying, maybe this is a sign from God,” she said with that I'm-not-preaching face she gets when that's exactly what she
is
doing. “Maybe
He
doesn't want you to do the funky pickle with Tyler.
He
might have someone more worthy in mind, at some later date, like when you're married.”

“You don't honestly believe that.”

“I might.”

“Is your mom making you go to those prayer breakfasts again?”

Roach stood and smiled down at her feet. “They're not so bad.”

I remembered the one and only Faith Community breakfast Roach had conned me into attending. “Hey, if people yipping in tongues, passing out and twitching on the floor brings you closer to your Maker, who am I to judge? At least the food's to die for.”

“I might struggle with my faith, but I'm well fed. They had ham and cheese croissants with chocolate cheesecake last week.” Roach gloated.

“Heavenly.” I sighed, envious.

There was a hard knock on Roach's bedroom door.

“The vile marauders are away!” Owen, Roach's younger brother, bellowed the words that signaled their parents had left the house, leaving the TV unsupervised.

Watching the Dunmore children rush to flick unfettered through the smut, foul language, and pop culture advertising was a thing of beauty. But I could only handle their naivety for so long. Plus, their TV sucked. The screen was smaller than my laptop's.

After a while, I nudged Roach. “Did you finish my diorama for English?”

She pointed to two shoeboxes on the stairs by the front entrance.

“Yours is the size twelve.”

For
Twelfth Night
. How fitting.

“Thanks,” I grabbed the box and headed for the door. “What do I owe you? A few packs of Winegums?”

“At least fifty,” Roach shot back. She hadn't once shifted her eyes from
Family Guy
. “You still haven't paid up for our video project. Or the poster assignment in social.”

“I'll get you thirty packs. But that's it.”

“Tyler Gribbons is on steroids.” Owen's voice broke over the last few syllables. Thirteen years old, asthmatic, and scary smart, Owen kept the school bullies in top shape.

“So are you, diaper breath.” I glared at the kid, but he didn't notice.

“I am not!”

“Oh, yeah? What do you think's in that puffer of yours?” The door slammed shut behind me. I stood on the porch, shoebox between my knees, and pulled on my hat.

“And put some salt out here, someone's gonna kill themselves…”