two.

title: it hardly matters.
date: february 15th, 2009.
description: another one. things were changed and they might change again.


His name was Ian. I knew I wanted him to be the first. I knew I wanted him to softly kiss my neck, ask me if I was okay and I knew I'd say "Yes, fine."

I also knew I wouldn't be his first. But when I thought of us together, the way our bodies would fit just right, it hardly mattered. It didn't matter as I purchased the plane ticket to Greenwich at the last minute price of 700 hundred dollars with the remaining money from my Bat Mitzvah- the money I was supposed to be saving for college. It didn't matter as I lied to my parents, telling them the girls and I were going away for the weekend to my best friend Emily's summer home in Carmel. It didn't even matter when I finally landed 3,000 miles away from home, ready to fuck Emily's long-distance boyfriend of two and a half years. None of this ever mattered.

Before I get to the actual act- the moment I was so desperately hungering for, I should clear something up. The way I've started the story, it sounds as if I was a renegade, a hunter with a mission unbeknownst to her prey.
This was not it at all.

He knew. We both knew what we were doing.
We'd been talking for hours every night on the phone for roughly six months.
Six months had gone by roughly for Emily, who'd complain to me in Mr. Fisher's 2nd period history class that the boy she loved, the boy she'd given her virginity to, even though before she met him she'd sworn at a bible camp one summer when she was 13 that her body would only belong to the man she married, this boy was pulling away from her. He never answer her calls and when he did, she knew he wasn't listening by the way he only murmured a string of "Mmm"s and "Uh-huh"s.
And I sat there. Not letting on in the slightest. I surprised myself- made my self sick- with my ability to deceive. My brain danced a frantic, guilty dance to Ian's voice telling me the night before that he no longer thought of Emily, no longer longed to hold her, but to hold me. As he laid in bed, he wished I was beside him. Me. The best friend. Not the girl he was supposed to be in love with.
And I sat there, my head waltzing with these thoughts- these thoughts I wouldn't will away- saying things like "He's busy", "We're all stressed- you know, college applications" and "I know he loves you."

I knew he didn't.
I knew he didn't when he finally, after all those months of late-night calls, whispering infidelities, told me to come. When he told me that he was sick of talking about it, he wanted to do it, wanted to do all those things to me. I wanted to put up a fight, wanted to toy around with the idea, say iconic things like "We can't, Ian, we just can't" and ask "What about Emily?"

But I didn't and I went without saying anything. He told me to come and there I was walking towards him, swaggering sinfully, as he waited at the gate with a knowing look in his eye.
We drove to his house, the house carefully hidden in Connecticut's countryside, the house his family had so abruptly moved him to two years ago. We sat in a charged silence. Everything had been said, we'd been talking for months, and our brains, our mouths, our tongues couldn't possibly form another word. Couldn't be compelled to do anything besides maim the the relationship this boy had with the girl I'd known since the first day of elementary school. The girl who'd shared her lunches with me because her mom had always made better sandwiches. The girl who held my hand, listened through the mumbled sobs after my heart had been broken by "stupid boys who don't even deserve you if they can't realize how beautiful you are."
The girl who never found out that I spent the weekend holding that boy, letting him touch me in the same ways he'd touched her.

We'd finally done it. And as words came back to us, that boy whispered to me, "I wasn't thinking of her."
And as I laid there beside him, soaked with my transgression, I thought to myself:
It hardly mattered if he was thinking of her, because I was.