I could not believe that the Eagle Scout I’d met five hours ago in a church could really have his hand down the front of my shorts in my cousin’s backyard while we watched Rocky Horror Picture Show on a huge projector screen set up by my uncle. His name was J and he had a butterfly knife in his pocket; he’d shown me and the other teenagers at this graduation party some tricks with it before we’d settled in for the movie. Rainbow blades like wings, fluttering and clicking, beautiful as they were menacing.
I was kissing him back. I thought he was cute, an older boy. I was the youngest at fifteen. My cousin was the graduate. These were his friends.
After the film ended, it was decided that we should watch another one indoors. My cousin went about setting it up and I climbed the two flights of stairs up to my guest room to change into sweats.
I don’t remember what distracted me—maybe a text message—but J had come up and was asking me if I was okay. There was no door, so he just walked right in. We sat on the bed and started talking. We started kissing and he pulled me on top of him. I told him I didn’t want to have sex and he said he understood. And then somehow he was inside me and then I told him I had heard a sound and he should go and I would be down soon.
After, in the hottest shower I could handle, I sobbed. I had, physically, been in the position of dominance. I had done this. At least I wasn’t a virgin, I thought, chanted, over and over again as the scalding water started to hurt. At least he wasn’t my first.
And it was wrong.