Mike

I spend the night at him dorm. We're not drunk; we fell asleep to wooziness produced by new friends, new atmospheres, kisses on the lips because we can, heads on stomachs, legs entangled, freedom, heat. I awaken to his breath on my face, his roommate leaving, the door closing.
My eyes stay shut and so do his, but his nose hits mine, traces circles. Our knees bump. I struggle to control my shaking.
He leans forward, brushing his lips against mine, testing my response. I exhale as steadily as I can before he moves forward again, a little less slowly, his body following his actions. He kisses like a wave, moving forward and back, forward and back, his thigh pushing in between my legs and mimicking the pulse. Neither of us open our eyes.
Suddenly his tongue lunges forward, positioning itself firmly into my mouth, not moving. I struggle to breathe, pull back, shift uncomfortably. I allow myself to look at his face and my face reddens slightly.
It's a long walk back to my room. My mouth tastes like stale spit.

Typical

We've been on the bus for hours; the sun is long past set and many are sleeping, their heads against windows, their mouths open and breaths loud against the soft buzz of wheels hitting road. I remain awake in the darkness, examine faces, count headlights, rub my arms in a weak defense against the cold.
"You're still up?" The voice startles me; my heart pounds solidly against my chest before retreating into its cage.
"Yeah," I manage, groan playfully. "Sucks."
"Me too," says someone else, out of my sight.
"What?"
Soon we have a group, face each other through the aisle, grateful to have relief from the stillness that had plagued us.
"We should play truth or dare," someone suggests. The girls giggle devilishly in response; the boys feign disinterest.
Tongues in throats, fingers in mouths, shirts off, hands roaming.

It's not really a party, but more of a gathering. Ralph's friends are there; they stand in a circle and laugh uproariously and hold drinks in their hand. I refuse the cup they hand out to me. I'm not in the mood for blurry thoughts.
Someone sits next to me. I don't know him name, but I smile, turn away. He introduces himself anyway.
"I'm Juan," he says, and he puts an arm around my shoulders. I unconsciously lean into the touch, imagine for a moment that we're dating, that he cares about me, that I belong to him.
We watch the room, watch as everyone's eyes begin to droop, hear their words begin to slur. I'm the only sober one there; even Juan periodically sips from the bottle on the table in front of us. I smell it in his breath as he leans towards me.
He hand travels down to my waist, slips underneath my shirt, traces my hipbone. I breathe in sharply at the contact before he kisses me, roughly, wildly.
I don't move, observe his face. His eyes are closed, but sometimes his eyelids flutter and I see a sliver of white, hanging underneath his eyelashes like curtains, before they disappear in a contortion of his forehead. His cheeks are taut, concave, and his bones jut into the air with vendetta. His tongue is invading my mouth and I endure it, let him bite at my lips, let his fingers squeeze my waist and slip underneath clothes.
My hand hangs in my hair. I need a shower. His teeth clack against mine. I imagine scrubbing myself until I burn.
"Let's go to another room," he whispers. The smell of alcohol is suffocating. I shake my head, get up to leave. He holds my hand, pulls me back, kisses me again, hard and quick. "Let me get your number, then." I give it to him, turning away. He doesn't let go of my hand. I pull it from his grasp.
I don't respond when he texts me.

Sophie

"Come on, just do it," they egg us, circling us, cell phones at the ready. "You're both single. You want to."
My face is close to hers; she won't meet my eyes. I'm holding her arms, crouching in front of her lap, repeating their words.
"Let's just do it."
She hesitates. "Fine..."
I dive in immediately, not hesitating, the cat calls and shouts pushing me forward. The kiss is bad; our teeth clack together; our tongues miss, but that doesn't deter our audience. Their excitement is tangible, sticky against my skin. I pull back and they applaud, patting me on the back. I feel successful, lick my lips, smirk.
Her name is Sophie, and she pulls me into the staircase, away from eyes.
"I'm really straight, you know." I smile but don't press the issue.
"Yeah, ok."
We're holding hands, she looks down.
"We should practice more."
"Yeah, ok."
We try again, and it's not as horrible, but we're still confused as to who should lead and who should follow. Our teeth don't clack, our tongues brush, our hands hold each others faces and her cheeks are hot, red.
"I'm really straight," she repeats, as we break apart. "But, um..." She's British, her accent begins to leak into her words. "Maybe I could call you sometime, and we could, you know. Hang out or something."
"Ok," I reply, but I'm already walking back towards the room.

Jon, continued

A love affair during work is a fantasy most girls dream about. Of course, this effect was somewhat dampened by the elementary-aged children pulling at my legs, screaming, crying, snot running out of their noses. I'd be watching a child ravaging his nose for a booger, or sticking his hands down his pants, or wiping mulch from a scrape when Jon would approach me from behind, whispering words in my ear like,
"Sloppy cunt" and "Whore". He had discovered my weaknesses early, knew how to make me squirm, watched me as I ran across the field, entered the pool.
His lips were always wet, his face always a little sweaty, or maybe greasy, with a permanent red tinge that wasn't caused by the heat. He'd pull me in the hallway for a kiss, quick and sloppy. I'd have to wipe my mouth afterward, as soon as he looked away.
It wasn't that I was disgusted by him. In fact, I was still enraptured at the thought of an older man with all his interest on me. It made me feel, in a way, distinguished, privileged, worth something. In that way he had me caught in a vice grip, which I couldn't wiggle out of even if I tried.
My older sister worked with us. I could feel her eyes on me whenever Jon and I were together, saw her disapproving frown. "He's too old," she would say, as she drove us home. "You better not be dating him."
"I'm not." I was frustrated by her prying and my words were sharp.
And we weren't dating, really. I'd go to his house sometimes, mainly in groups, and he would take me to his room and say, "I would love to take you out," and "I would love to be your boyfriend." I would always avoid the subject, for reasons I still have yet to grasp. He didn't press the issue, instead told me about himself, his life, his troubles, his torments. I shared some of myself as well, but remained guarded. Maybe it was that we were coworkers. Maybe it was my sister's words. Maybe I had known, somehow, of his insincerity, lurking just behind his smile like a crocodile in muddy water.
There was a girl with him, one time. He ignored me, focused his attention on her, a hand on her knee, his mouth near her hair. I grew furious, anxious, my skin itching, my stomach rolling over itself. My nails tore at my skin, but the irritation didn't cease. My ears were buzzing.
"She's just like a sister to me," he assured me, holding my hand. In the fingers of his other hand was a cigarette. I remembered him saying that he didn't smoke.
It was the next week that I heard him fucking her in the next room over. She was a screamer; his bed squeaked. I heard the alternating thrusts and moans. There was music in the background- it sounded Asian, almost like a soundtrack.
I remembered him saying that he was a virgin.
"Take me home," I said to Ralph, wanting to vomit.
I felt like a whore.

Jon

Before my senior year of high school, I took a summer job as a camp counselor. I was familiar with the camps, having previously been a camper, but was still frightfully shy at the prospect of not only responsibility, but also meeting new people and having to tolerate and endure their judgment. So for the camp's orientation (a grueling eight-hour long event in which we were all stuffed in a cafeteria and made to listen to near-useless information) I kept mostly to myself, listening to the jokes and conversations of those around me instead of participating in them. Everyone was interesting, full of life, comfortable.
There was one man who particularly caught my eye. I say man because he was so much older than me, entering his third year of college with a whopping four year age difference between us. He even carried the aura of someone more mature, able to command the presence of those around him so easily, as if we were all merely the audience to his act. His jokes poured out of him effortlessly, his smile never leaving his face. I was transfixed.
As I sat at the table, timid, silent, we made eye-contact, and he smiled so wide that there were crinkles around his eyes and I would turn red in the cheeks. Soon he spoke to me. "I'm Jon," he said.
"Riley."
"Nice to meet you Riley." I could only nod in response. For the rest of the orientation he focused on me, making me smile, brushing our hands together, whispering jokes in my ear. I felt special, wanted. As we began to file out of the school, he leaned over to me. "What are you doing later?"
"Um," I stuttered, focusing on my phone "I have this concert later, so... It's at the high school."
His smile never left his face. "What time?"
"7:30," I replied.
"I'll be there."
He called me that night as I walked into the auditorium. I was wearing my best dress, my best makeup (which, admittedly, was only a dash of mascara and blush), tittering down the aisle and trying not to look awkward as I peered into the audience in an attempt to find his face among the crowd. Eventually I saw him, near the front, sitting far from my friends and smiling expectantly.
"You look great," he muttered as I took my seat and the lights dimmed.
"Thanks."
The curtains parted, the band began to play. It was Asian music, as full and animated as a soundtrack, and he whispered,
"It's like Spirited Away."
And I whispered,
"I love that movie."
He smiled and took my hand.
My friends smiled at me knowingly, so I avoided looking at them.
After the concert, we walked in the hallway, and he hugged me tightly. "We should movies together," he suggested. "Miyazaki. You should come over." I nodded.
A few days later and I was on his couch, his brother milling about the room. "Ralph," he said, his arm around my shoulders. "Could you get us a glass of water?"
"Sure," Ralph replied, shrugging. "I'll be right back."
Jon watched as Ralph started up the steps, his hand clenching the soft area by my neck. As soon as he was out of sight, he took my chin, turned my head to his, immediately attacking my mouth. My eyes hung half-open, I watched as his face contorted and shifted with every twist of his tongue.
There were footsteps. Ralph reemerged, two cups of water in hand.
"Thanks," Jon said, taking them. We sipped slowly, not looking at one another. Ralph smiled a little. "I'll be in my room."
We watched Howl's Moving Castle that night, me lying on his chest, his arms resting on my back. We kissed every few minutes, alerting each other of our happiness by thrumming our fingers, giggling, kissing cheeks.
I don't remember the movie.

The First

I was sixteen when I had my first kiss.
I had never dated anyone, never shared love notes, never held hands.
But there I was in the orchestra room, with a tongue shoved in my mouth and hands running up and down my back, lingering whenever they passed over my bra.
It had started innocently enough. I liked to tease people, go in for the kiss and stop a centimeter away, breathe in their scent as they stood in shocked silence. It was almost a trademark, the swoop-in, the meeting of gazes, laughter.
So I wasn't really concerned when he pulled me into the room, ducked down for a kiss and stopped right before contact. We smiled, tilting our heads back and forth, teasing.
"I kind of want to," he said, his voice low, almost purring.
He had allergies and one eye was red and droopy.
"I know," I replied, giggling.
And that was it. We made out, left the room, pulled each other back in. Students walked by and we were thrilled.
He called me that night, sighed into the phone.
"I've been crushing on you for awhile now..." I was delighted, enthralled with the idea of someone liking me, thinking about me, fantasizing about me. Masturbating about me. "But, you see, I'm kind of in love with this other girl, and... you know..."
I did know. I wasn't really hurt; he didn't mean anything to me.
"Yeah," I replied, smiling despite myself. "Well, you know, if you ever just want to hook up... You know, you can call me."
He was taken aback. "Yeah. Yeah, I will."
And he did. Sixteen year old me, never having dated, never having shared love notes, never having held hands, sat in the passenger seat of his truck as he moved his fingers inside and out of me, bra on the floor, dress pulled down to the waist.
The reality of it hit me after the fourth car passed and we had to duck, cramped, in order to avoid getting caught.
"Take me home," I said, suddenly feeling ill.
"Why?" he asked, his fingers still probing me, his unwashed hair skirting across my neck.
"Please." I was getting a little desperate, a little fearful. He sat back, held the steering wheel, looked back at me.
"Could you at least blow me?" I shook my head. I had never even held hands.