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“I was thinking about coming over to see you at the library.”
“For how long?”
“Since lunch.”
I laugh, and then I can’t, because he’s thrusting into me so hard that my whole body turns into a bow, arching up, tensing, tight. My mouth falls open.
West kisses my neck, my jawline, my throat.
The world smells green and new.
I close my eyes, and when I open them, the stars are a careless spill of diamonds decorating the night.
His thumb finds my clit and moves in slow circles in time with his thrusts.
Into me. Into me. Into me.
He eases his hand over my shoulder and down my arm, over my hip.
Pulls up my knee. Looks in my eyes.
We go deep and then deeper, falling, spinning.
When he’s with me, I’m never lost.
Caroline
There are few things in life as fantastic as tackling another human being.
Like, at the top of my list of physically enjoyable things I want to be doing as much as possible, it’s basically orgasms and tackling people. And sometimes I think tackling people is better, although I’ll admit it also comes with a higher likelihood of getting kicked in the face.
The first time I brought down another woman on the rugby pitch, I felt like I’d cracked a code. Stolen a secret men had been keeping from me. Because the thing is, guys make it seem difficult, as though tackling requires either blind rage or shoulder pads to be even doable.
We women watch from the stands, sipping hot chocolate high in the bleachers, and there is never any s
uggestion that this activity might be for us. That we might have what it takes to get this job done, too.
I used to be a good girl. I sat in the stands. I followed the rules, worked hard to get straight A’s, dated a nice boy, and made him wait a long time for sex.
It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was in the right neighborhood, and it seemed like the thing at the time.
There is a way in which smart girls, good girls, grow up thinking that if we keep following the rules, the world will hand us what we want.
So we line up, and we wait. But no one ever shows up to deliver the goods. And the longer we wait in that line, the more likely we are to take receipt of one ration of shit after another.
Being a good girl didn’t work out for me.
At the end of my junior year at Putnam, I’m not that girl anymore. I’ve stepped out of the line.
I’ve become someone else.
I am engaged, every day, in the process of becoming myself, and one of the things I understand now that I didn’t used to is that every possible activity is for me. Anything and everything I might want is available to me if I’m willing to do what it takes to claim it.
Sometimes it will be fucking unpleasant.
Sometimes people will hate me for it.
That’s okay.
