I kept having the same dream. Not that that's anything new. I'll have recurring dreams about losing my makeup, missing a flight, failing out of school. But I usually don't have these types of dreams. The ones where I wake up in the middle of the night feeling guilty, ashamed, and incredibly wet. Guilty because my boyfriend would be gently asleep next to me, unaware what filled my dreams. Ashamed because, well, I love sex. I love the way it feels when my boyfriend pushes deep inside of me, the way he touches me, kisses me, and whispers how much he loves me. I love it when he spanks me. I love it when he takes control of me.
But I grew up with high moral standards and southern Christian summer camps. Dirty words weren't uttered, heard, or thought. Even now, at twenty-one, I hate the word pussy. I hate the word cock. I feel repulsed at vulgarity. I don't even know why. It makes me talking dirty to my boyfriend as he fucks me needlessly grueling as I make sweet sounding synonyms of body parts and obscene actions –– I'm okay with fuck, it has enough different uses that it seems innocuous. But other than that, I simply can't move past that conditioning from my childhood. I was raised that ladies don't say such things. So every time I had this dream, I would feel so ashamed because the only thought in my mind when I would wake was how much I wanted to touch another girl's pussy.
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My boyfriend, Jake, and I had dated for a year at this point. Though I've been with others before him, I have never felt as strongly and deeply about a person. He seems to have been placed on this earth for the sole purpose of being a husband, complete marriage material. At least in contrast to the fun but immature boys that seem to populate the campus dating scene. It's like watching a bad Judd Apatow movie being around most of them.
I first met Jake in the library, finals week, December. The week that two-thirds of campus discovers the library for the first time, making it more crowded and more noisy than the student union. Freshmen year I had found my sanctuary, however. Tucked up on the fourth floor, through two doors, one with the very dull title 'The Edgar J. Potts Collection of Official Waindell Documents and Historical Research,' was a wood-paneled reading room for the rare soul interested in our New England town. The doors and the name acted as a wall to the average student; for the brave student, it acted as a buffer from the rest of the finals studiers who were only too happy to memorize their notes next to hundreds of others.
I made it my home. No one, save a professor or two, ever ventured through the doors. No one, I think, even knew about the reading room behind the documents. It was such a small blip on the library map. And it was on the fourth floor in a library without an elevator.
On this particular snowy December day, I trudged my way through the campus to the library, backpack heavy with my books and computer, struggled up the four flights of stairs, walked to the end of the hall, through the two doors, and found a stranger in my study hole. What the fuck.
His face had been buried in a big book. He looked up when I entered. My frustration melted as I took in his smile and charming eyes.
"Hello." He had deep voice.
"Hi, you don't mind, if I join?"
"Not at all, great place to study."
"Yeah, I know," I said. I noticed a touch of bitterness was creeping back into me, despite this stranger's politeness and good looks.
I placed my bags on the table and sat down in the chair. He had returned to his book. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his notebook open, as he took notes from whatever he was studying. He seemed completely immersed. I sighed and removed my computer and textbook from the bag. I kept darting my eyes over toward him as I opened the textbook to the chapter I needed to work on.
We spent two hours in silence. Him absorbed in some boring book on what I finally discerned was a history, me trying to concentrate on my textbook and typing up notes. He broke the silence around noon.
"Hey so, I'm about to grab lunch from the cafe, you mind watching my stuff?"
"You sure you can trust me?" I said.
He laughed. It was a cute laugh. "You have a point. I don't even know your name."
"Brett." I extended my hand.
"Brett, I'm Jake. Do you want me to get you something?"
"Actually, yeah, here's a five, I just need a coffee."
"No food? It's on me."
"If they have any good looking pastries, I'll take one. Doesn't matter the kind."
As he left I let out a deep breath. I simply couldn't study any longer. I couldn't keep my eyes off him. When he stood up, he was taller than I had guessed. Probably six feet. He had dark hair that ran to his ears, with a slight curl, dark brown eyes, and fair skin. His strong jaw and winter stubble made him look like Cedric Diggory from the Harry Potter movies (you know, Robert Pattinson without that vampire glow). His smile was either a smirk or a childish grin, with strong white teeth and defined lips. It was irresistible. And I was definitely captivated.
I wondered if he thought the same about me. I had never had trouble with dating. But he was a few steps up from my last date. I took my mirror out from my bag and looked at myself. I hadn't worn much makeup, but my blue eyes and soft skin looked fresh and well rested. My long blonde hair had a nice wave to it. I smoothed out my red V-neck sweater, letting my breasts show a bit more prominently when I heard the door open.
"Alright, here's your coffee, and here's a cheese pastry."
He himself had bought a coffee too, along with a strong smelling sandwich.
"Seriously? This is a small enough space as is, and you come back to fill it up with onion and meat smells?" It was a bit mean considering we'd only met a few hours ago, but I hoped he realized I wanted to flirt.
"A simple thank-you would have sufficed. A boy has got to eat." He said it with a smile.
"Surely you could have found something that wouldn't have stunk up the room for the next few hours?"
"But then I wouldn't get the pleasure of annoying you and enjoying how delicious this sandwich is."
We finished our meals, books forgotten, and talked for the next hour about ourselves. The simplest details, the silliest stories all seemed so exciting. Every suggestion was revealing, every gesture significant of who this guy was. After an hour, maybe two hours, it was clear that Jake was smart, ambitious, and confident. I found a way to pin every positive masculine adjective on him in my mind. He was simply a man.
We both agreed we were done studying. He asked if he could see me again, perhaps in a less smelly or dull location, and by the time I returned to my dorm at 4 PM, I had a date Friday evening. We went on more dates after that, and we both felt the beginnings of love, and by the last day of the term, we were comfortably ensconced in my warm dorm room as snow piled up outside.
The lights, except my desk lamp, were turned off. The reflection from the setting sun on the snow supplied enough light for us to see each other. I remember at this point, at four dates, I had been surprised at his gentlemanliness and ease. But I was getting restless coming home alone every night and finding my underwear soaked after hot kisses and his gentle hands caressing my body. A girl has needs, and I really hoped his hesitance wasn't because he was a virgin. We had yet to talk that much of our sexual histories.
