A note to the observant: Almost all city names are false; they were taken from a variety of fantasy sources. All characters are based on real people, so it is no coincidence that they are the strongest part of the story. Names, and sometimes personality and personal history, have been modified to protect the innocent. The events of this story, however, are complete fiction.
When I woke up, it was just past ten. I could tell because some time over the past two hours, I had slipped off Colin's chest as I slept, and my head had turned to the left, which gave me a view of not only the digital clock near his bed, but the right side of his chest. Idly I massaged his pectorals. A little scrawny. Maybe he ought to work out. He says his father, an architect and former carpenter, has some work lined up for him over the summer, building track houses in Keld. Maybe that will give him some upper-body definition.
In about twelve hours, Colin Watson has turned my world upside down. Some of the changes have been welcome. Some, on the other hand, have been, well, a little harder to get used to. I mean, I
like
it when my men have some muscle. That's just something I appreciate in men. And the kind of boy I
normally
go out with are, you know, the sports guys, the athletic types... The jocks, in other words. The ones that value appearances. So they have muscles, because their reputations depend on having them. And it's nice to curl up with my head on their chest and feel the planes of their muscles shifting, to know their strength.
But sometimes I think that they are boys, in every sense of the word, and that Colin is the only person I've dated who's actually a man.
Because out of everyone I've curled up with, my head on their chest, he's the only one who didn't give me that look--sort of confused, sort of put out, like
Why are you doing this?
And he's the only one who put his arm around me and drew me in closer. The others... Didn't get it.
I've lived my life on my appearances. I know that. The simple fact is, I look good, and even though looks are an accident, they shape your life. Nature's accidents gave me blonde hair and blue eyes, that staple of American prepubescent fantasy; Nature's accidents gave me good skin and good health and a body that eventually went soft and curvy and swelled in all the right places; and Nature's accidents gave everybody else eyes that follow me wherever I go. Every friend's parent I've met has called me beautiful (and believe me, that gets embarrasing eventually) and almost every one of my girl friends has confessed to me (privately) that they're envious of my looks. It's just part of my life. And looks give you power, too. You know all the porn stories circulating about hot chicks who seduce their way to a passing grade--a look here, a sniffle there, a flash of the titties, that sort of thing. I could do that. I'm used to the power of my body.
I think the first time I learned about that power was second grade. I had more or less forgotten about this until Colin told me about it--
he
hadn't remembered either, his
mother
told him about it. Mrs. Watson. But once she reminded him, he remembered; and once he reminded me, I remembered. It was at this birthday party that one of our second-grade classmates held. I don't remember who, but he invited just about everybody in our class to come and have birthday cake and open presents and swim in his pool. Colin loved it--he swims like a fish, always has--but I wasn't so inclined, because back then I didn't know how to swim. No one had ever taught me, what with my father being off in the Army and my mother working all the time and my sister being younger than I am and the only other authority figure being my grandma, who was about eighty and died by cigarettes when I was twelve. I remember being really frustrated, because everyone (including Colin) was having a great time, and I wasn't. Not only wasn't,
couldn't
. Water scared me. I didn't know how to swim.
Well, the birthday boy's mother decked me out in all these colorful floaters, and tried to teach me to swim. Or at least to be comfortable in the water. I think Colin tried to help, but Mrs. Birthday-Boy wasn't having any, and I think he wandered away again. (Colin was young and easily distractable back then. I don't hold it against him.) But it just wasn't something I could get used to, and I ended up spending most of the party on the couch, watching TV.
Finally, in frustration, Mrs. Birthday-Boy declared, "Oh, don't worry, Heather, you may not like water, but at least you still have your looks." And Mrs. Watson, who was helping out at the party, overheard, and was sad to hear it. And Colin was very sad to tell me.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've always known I could count on my looks to get me somewhere. I was told it from a young age, by a variety of people, and later, around the time I grew my tits and ass, I discovered they were right.
But I think it went too far. People would look at me, even my boyfriends would look at me, and think,
Well, she looks perfect, she must
be
perfect
, and none of them ever thought that looks can be deceiving. That the girl with the golden hair didn't necessarily have everything figured out. And that there were nights when everything looked dark and I thought I didn't have a chance in Hell of making my life into what I wanted it to be.
And on these bad nights I would curl up next to my Boy of the Month and cling to him with my head on his chest, and he would give me that look--sort of confused, sort of put out, why are you doing this--and I'd realize that he didn't really understand.
Colin never treated me that way. Not through our long years of friendship, and not now, with his arm around my shoulders, holding me close to him. He's known me on good days, when I'm the kind of woman I want to be; he's known me on the bad days, when I'm spiraling off into oblivion and haven't any idea how to get back on track. Hell, I had bad
years
, back when I was
really
into popular music and fashion and cheerleaders and stuff, when I tried to replace my identity with popularity. He knows both sides, and unlike others, he has never assumed that I didn't
have
a bad side. I think people do that sometimes. I don't know why. What could be more stupid? We're
all
human, we
all
have good and bad days. But at the same time, I kind of understand, because we all must look up to
someone
. There must be someone we think has got it all figured out.
I think Colin has it figured out. This is not to say that he doesn't have bad days. He does. But he doesn't just take the surface appearance at face value. He looks closer. And he isn't put off when he finds out that the reality is different than the surface. I think he understands that we're all trying to be different than what we are now, and that most of us aren't done trying yet. And he's okay with that.
Those other boys I dated, on the other hand... Ugh, my God. They didn't want to hear about it when I was unhappy. They didn't want to talk about problems. This is why I'm so glad I'm out of that whole popularity crowd thing now, because it's a crowd that thrives on denial.
And that's really the thing that makes Colin and his friends different, and that makes Adam and his friends different. They don't hold with denial. One of Colin's common sayings is, "The world isn't what you want it to be, the world is what it is," and he lives by that. I don't think he's lied to Adam or me once in the past five years. And when we tell him something he doesn't want to hear but needs to hear, he doesn't complain, he just works with it. He's solid. I love him for that.
So I guess I can stand it if he doesn't have well-developed chest muscles. Because he's the only man I know who will let me cry on them. And which is more important--a friend who loves you because of the accidents Nature gave you, or a friend who loves you for who you really are?
I felt Colin's arm move from around my shoulders. It moved up to my head and stroked over my hair. I looked up and saw his eyes open, regarding me intently.
"Good morning," I said cheerfully.
His face broke into a smile. "Hi."
I massaged his chest, and his fingers continued to run through my hair.
"What's on your mind," he asked.
"I was just thinking," I said, "about how much I love you. And how lucky I am that I've finally found somebody whose first impression of me wasn't my boob size."
He laughed. "Well, glad to have been of service," he said, with a playful bob of his eyebrows.
The thing was, I meant it. But the thing is, I think he knew that.
I went up the bed and kissed him, running my hands over his chest and flanks. He rose up on his side to meet me. One of his arms was around my neck now, curled underneath it, and he ran his palm over my back and shoulders; the other travelled down the side of my body, up and down, from hip to breast, and then farther--the tender skin where my breast attaches to my body, the tender skin of my underarm; the smooth tensed flesh of my thigh.
"Well," I said. "Someone's happy to see me." His penis was poking at my pelvis; I reached down and slid it between my legs.
"You
do
know men sometimes have those when they wake up," he said.
"All the better, then," I said. "I want it in me." I rubbed him across my slit so that he could see how wet I was--which was more than I expected to be. I don't know what it is about him, but his touch just sets me off. Or maybe it's his eyes: dark brown, serious, so compassionate and sensitive. Focused on me. I love looking at his eyes and knowing I am there, inside them.
I lifted my leg and slung it over his hips, giving him more access to my dripping slit. As I did, his hand moved to my inner thigh and began to stroke it, which only fired me even more.
"Do you want," I asked him, my voice hoarse.
"I want," he said.
I guided the head of his cock to the gate of my pussy, feeling it spread my lips. He flexed his hips forward slowly, and I felt him sink his shaft into me, opening me with his warm staff. I moved my hand to his hips and pulled at him, wanting more, until finally he was as buried inside me as he could be. I felt our pubic hairs intermeshing, felt his chest moving with his breath, the rush of his breath against my mouth as I pressed my lips to his, the thunder of his heart. Most of all, though, I felt his marvellous cock, filling me to the brink, making me a woman. I loved the fullness.
We sidled towards each other, wanting to be as close as possible, until finally my head rested on his, peeking over his shoulder, and we were as close as two people can be. Then he began to move inside me, and it all fell away: the dorm room with the scents of our previous lovemakings still hanging in the air; the noises of Saturday-morning college life coming through the window; even the bed beneath us, the comforters that sheltered us. All I knew was the tension of his body as he held me to him, mashing my breasts between us, and the fullness inside me, making short shallow strokes, opening me again and again. I clung to him, wishing our skin would melt, that we would become one person.
