He strolled toward her, black sweatshirted arched back low over the broom. She watched as three years worth of dust bunnies pranced toward her till they formed a furry cloud at her feet. There was a bulge in his black pants. Not throbbing, not menacing, as the romance novels had instructed it to seem. Just there. And his eyes...large, blue-green jewels framed by the longest lashes she had ever seen on a boy. A pudgy roman nose. A full, feminine mouth. Pretty white trash.
The realization of what was happening inside her elicited a slight gasp, manifesting in a noticeable hiccup. He paused his sweeping.
She followed him into the one-stalled boy's room that stank of piss and was adorned with crude caveman etchings of blow jobs. She shut the door behind her and clicked the lock and when he turned around to face her he didn't even seem surprised: he had won. And then her mouth was on his, sucking greedily, draining every ounce of sap from the gender-ambiguous peaches of his lips. He suddenly pulled away and she lost her balance, tumbling towards the toilet. She landed ass-first on the thankfully-closed seat. He was standing in front of the mirror, tenderly stroking his lower lip and it occurred to her that she had bit him.
"I, um, like it rough," she warbled, instantly regretting it the moment it escaped her. He laughed, but as he turned to her, she could see he was not smiling. He roughly pulled her off the toilet seat by her elbows and arched her body over the sink. She dug her nails into his forearms in protest, but then then he had her sitting on the ledge and her legs were wrapped around his waist and she was kissing and kissing him.
Five minutes later, she was running out of the basement into the crisp autumn air, relishing the sounds and scents not related to human excretions. She had just lived a fantastic story to tell her best friend, Dani, a story for them to laugh about and analyze in precise, graphic detail over clove cigarettes and iced coffee.
Dani was a diamond, she was so sharp and pretty. She loved her, or, she thought, maybe I just want to fuck her. She couldn't tell the difference in those days. Looking back, that might have the defining characteristic of that era of her life.
