My Love, My Drug, My Release

Wednesday, October, 1968

I could barely pay attention in school, all the background noise muted into a dull roar. My notebooks were full of doodles, sketches of Brandon's face, and little mantras for myself. 'This is a normal thing to do' and 'it's what you want' and even 'this is how love begins'. Things to ease my nerves over going to the flat of a boy I barely knew to have sex for the first time. 

More than anything, I was wishing I had a friend, a girlfriend, I could talk to about this sort of thing. I couldn't talk to Jack, obviously, and Linda wasn't the right choice either. All I wanted was for someone to say, 'Losing your virginity isn't that big of a deal and being sexually free is the best thing that can happen to a woman in this day and age.' Brandon had said that, more or less, at Uncarbonated, but he would wouldn't he? He couldn't exactly expect me to sleep with him if he said I was a horrible, dirty whore for doing so.

I didn't eat anything at lunch, not just because of nerves, but because I was worried about needing to use the bathroom in the middle of it all.

The worst part was how oblivious Jack was to it all.

"So my English teacher doesn't know shit about shit," he complained to me on the drive home, now completely comfortable with our chauffer listening to our every conversation. "And if you try to even suggest to him that he's wrong, it's like it affects him personally." He leaned back in his seat, undoing his tie. "I swear to God, if I didn't love it here, I'd kill myself."

Nothing about that statement made any sense to me, but I didn't bother responding, he was in the mood to monologue.

"And he's the biggest creep. Like, there's this girl in our class, and she's smokin', blonde, green eyes, a great body, but, you know, my age, and he's always hitting on her. It doesn't matter how good-looking she is; she's sixteen, and he's a grown man, and it's just fucking gross."

"Has she complained about it?"

"Well no, because apparently, he's really attractive or something. None of my mates understand it, but whatever." He folded his arms grumpily. "Girls get everything wrong."

I waited for him to correct himself, but he didn't, so instead, I tapped our driver gently on the shoulder. "Do you know if Paul and Linda are home?"

"No miss, they went out to for dinner and a show, they probably won't be home until late."

Jack snorted. "They're probably going out to get high and fuck."

His crassness made me cringe involuntarily. He hadn't always been like this, he used to talk about poetry and politics and would go out of his way to say 'be intimate' and 'perform oral sex' to avoid saying cruder terms. But he was slowly transforming into a facsimile of the macho rockers he used to laugh at.

"Do you think they'll be together for much longer?" I asked.

"No, they'll split by the New Year, I guarantee it."

"Why do you say that?"

"Linda isn't the kind of woman Paul's going to end up with. No offense to her, but she's a groupie, not wife-material." We pulled up outside the house and started walking inside, Jack putting a brotherly arm over my shoulder. "It's a damn shame too, cause this is a  nice house, and the school's fine, minus that asshole teacher. Plus, our friends from Uncarbonated: Jean, Vivienne, Elliot-"

"Brandon." It slipped out before I could catch it, and I waited for him to figure out what I was up to, and try to stop me.

"I don't like that kid. He's a dickhead."

That was it, and then he was off to listen to records in the green room, and I was alone in the kitchen. Maybe hoping he'd deduce my plans to sleep with Brandon from me simply mentioning his name in an appropriate context was expecting too much, but his complete disinterest hurt so much, I felt physically tired.

But I couldn't sleep, I had to shower and shave my legs and underarms, put on my plain black dress that I'd had since I was half a foot shorter and twenty pounds lighter. Somehow it had stretched from frequent wear and washing, and I was glad because it was short-sleeved, mid-thigh, hung loosely over my lower-stomach pouch, and didn't have unnecessary details or colors. It was me, if I was an article of clothing.

I tried to find some makeup from Linda, but she only had a mostly dried-up mascara. While I was digging around, I found a glittery silver bag that couldn't have belonged to my step-mom. Inside were a dozen lipsticks, a rouge, a concealer, two eyeliners, and a mascara. Had she borrowed this from someone? If so, who?

But then I realized it was among Paul's stuff. This probably belonged to a woman he'd had an affair with. Or a woman he was still having an affair with.

As nauseating as the thought was, I still used some pink lipstick, before blotting most of it off, and then put a black pencil in my waterline, hoping I wouldn't get a stye, and then a bit of mascara on my lashes. 

When there was finally a knocking on the door, I scribbled a note to Jack and slipped on a coat, but lingered in the foyer for a moment. Maybe I was hoping Jackson would come down to stop me, or Linda and Paul would come in and say they wanted to have a family night, but no one came to rescue me, so I left.

The motorcycle ride wasn't as terrifying as I thought it would be. Maybe because my anticipation of what was going to happen when we arrived had me nearly paralyzed.

"You okay?" Brandon asked when we arrived, taking off his helmet and shaking his long hair free, running a leather-gloved hand through the brown locks. "Some people throw up after their first ride."

"I'm fine." 

When I removed my helmet, he laughed. "Sorry, you're just all staticky."

"What?" I squeaked, trying to flatten my hair down. 

"Don't worry about it, you look great."

He grabbed my hand in his and led me into his building, taking the lift to the fourth floor. It was a decent place. The hallways were narrow and stuffy, but the wallpaper, molding, and light fixtures were very Victorian looking. His room was near the end of the hall, and the door took some finagling to open.

"Sorry, it's an old building. It can take a little effort to get things to work around here." He opened it and there was a pleasant breeze coming from the open windows, the white curtains flowing effortlessly like they were underwater. 

"They don't have screens," I noticed out loud.

"What?"

"The windows don't have screens." I reached my arm out past the sill, the cool air making goosebumps erupt on my skin. "Anything could get in; bugs, birds... people."

I felt Brandon come up behind me and put his hands on my waist, kissing my neck softly. He didn't seem very interested in my comments on his lack of window screen. But I wanted to learn more; did he know that creatures could get in easily, had something already gotten in, did he just not care about stupid things the common people did?

But I could hardly speak, not just because his mouth rarely left mine as he backed me toward the one bedroom in his flat, the bed taking up most of the space in it, but because I could barely breathe. My heart was pounding so fast, I felt like I was running a marathon, and if I even tried to open my eyes, the world was grey and swirling. This didn't feel like being high anymore, or like falling in love. The only thing I could compare these sensations to was what I'd imagine it felt like to die. As he slid my clothes off, and his, and covered us in the smooth, cotton sheets, the only thought in my mind was 'I am drowning, I am drowning, I am drowning.' And I wasn't sure if I'd ever resurface.