one.

title: shake.
date: may 5th, 2009.
description: it isn't perfect.

the technicolor lights pour from every branch of my mother's fake plastic christmas tree and dance on the bridge of his nose. soft shades of red, yellow, and white highlight his every feature- making him look devastatingly picturesque. tiny gilded bears and toy soldiers watch with a blank expression as he slides across the couch, closer, closer, close to me.
shaking.
i'm shaking.
literally shaking. my body's reaction to affection- the affection i've been working towards for three weeks, spending that extra fifteen minutes getting ready in the morning, wearing shorter skirts, asking him earlier this week to come over and "study", my reaction to all of this is to to bop bop bop like a fucking wind-up toy or something.
and he notices.
of course he notices.
how can he not? i'm having a baby seizure on my end of the faux-leather sofa.
"you alright?"
"fine." i smile.
"you don't look fine. is something wrong?"
fuck.
is there something wrong?
no. no. no.
other than the fact that i want you in a major way and it's making me do michael j. fox impressions.
i giggle.
and slide closer.
i'm cocking my head, slightly rightly, biting my lower lip, letting my eyelashes bat bat bat.
cute? is this cute?
i read in seventeen magazine that you've gotta let him know you want him with your body. gotta be sly, gotta be slick. can't just jump him. bite the lip, bat the eyes. it's supposed to do the trick.
bite, bat, bite, bat.
...
nothing yet.
and hellppp!
i'm still milkshakin', still bill shakespearin' over here.

should i tell him he's the first?
it's the maiden voyage of the s.s. never been kissed and he's the first one on deck.
god, i'm fifteen and i've gotta be the last girl with virgin lips.
but i've heard guys think that's hot. it's like cool or whatever because you're pure and they can totally dig on that.
but what about him?
dig or no dig?
my brain's digging me a lovely hole to shake in.

and i'm not so pure.
i let carrie's older brother touch me between my legs every night the summer before last.
hot nights, we'd sleep outside in a little pink tent.
mosquitos buzzbuzzed above our heads, we had sticky marshmallow fingers and chocolatey graham cracker mouths.
carrie'd fall asleep first, i'd lay flat on my back, eyes wide open, waiting for his footsteps to cut through the still arid air.
unzip, zip, zip.
i'd turn over and pretend to be asleep while jacob, nineteen years old and whisky-breath'd, climbed in, carefully rolled down the waistband of my jean cutoffs and explored. i felt it all- his sloppy fingers inside of me.
i don't know if he knew what i felt.
i tried my hardest to imitate the blank face of a peaceful dreamer, sugarplums and whatnot,
but something always gave me away.
nightlynightly,
he'd feel me shake.
i'd shake.

and now i actually want it- i didn't have a choice last time, those torrid summer nights held me captive-
but now. i'm older. and i've had time to heal.
but i'm doing the same old dance, my body's playing the same old tricks.
stop, body, stop!
it's not him. jacob's gone- i never went back to carrie's house after that summer.
this one's good. and you're not curled up on the floor of a stained pink tent.
you're awake! your eyes are open!
so why do you shake, body? why do you shake?
let me be still and let me be kissed.
whywhywhywhywhywh-

oh fuck.
garage door opens.
mom's home,
jig's up.