*Slow updates*
After agreeing to be the focus of a college article,
senior Charlie Murtaugh gets more than he bargains for when he's assigned a clueless sophomore who knows nothing about the sport.
...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
For the first time in ages, I'm awakened by the feeling of the morning sunshine and not the annoying sound of my 6 AM alarm. And despite my sinful actions of giving into temptation last night and the tender soreness in between my legs, I wake up feeling refreshed, well-rested, and happy.
It takes a moment to adjust to the streaming light coming from my opened curtains, and when I catch a glimpse of my lying body in the full-length mirror opposite my bed, I can't help the smile that breaks out on my face. There's an overwhelming feeling of warmth and contentment in my chest.
I can't help but hide my smile underneath the covers like a shy schoolgirl who has just had her first kiss. Which, to be fair, is the same case for me.
I had sex with Charlie. And it wasn't just any sex. It was dirty. Rough. Hot. F*cking mindblowing. Charlie Murtaugh f*cked the living shit out of me. And I liked it. I enjoyed every second of it. It felt like I was on top of the world. And he placed me there.
If someone told me a year ago that this would happen, I'd laugh in their face because never in a million years would I have imagined this. Never in a million years would I have dared to dream about this. I've never felt deserving enough. But last night, Charlie made me feel beautiful, unique and wanted.
At that moment, I mattered.
And Charlie helped me realise that.
As pathetic as it sounds.
The room is quiet, except for the soft sound of 90s R&B drifting in from my slightly open window. I rub the sleep from my eyes as I take in my surroundings. The right side of the bed is empty, and there are no signs of Charlie still being in my room. I internally wince at the soreness I feel as I swing my legs over the bed, climbing out. Every step toward my clothes is a physical reminder of last night. A constant reminder that I'm no longer a virgin.
Regardless of the odd feeling of losing something, the smile on my face doesn't fade. The contentment in my heart doesn't dissipate, and I doubt it would. At least not right now. As I lean down to pluck my clothes from where they were scattered around the room, everything feels right-even my messy sex hair.
I can't help but giggle when I catch my reflection in the mirror. I don't know what I expected to see but I look the same-if I neglected my hair for two weeks without running a comb through it.
I might not look different, but I feel different. In a way, I can't explain. Am I changed? I don't think so. But will I change? Probably not. Losing one's virginity is a rite of passage after all and after having a difficult childhood filled with nothing but trauma and difficult memories, it wasn't something I had thought I'd get to experience so soon. For me, losing my virginity was going to be a sad thing. Something I'd have been forced to do, probably at the age of 40 with someone willing to put me out of my misery.
