“We could do it,” Brad breathed into my mouth, where he pinned me hot to my early summer mattress. His sharp hips sidled and rubbed rough between my thighs. My clothes and his were uncomfortable bunches of cotton between here and there, between now and later, between the dry pulse of what I thought I knew and what the wet violence of girlhood would teach me.

I didn’t answer, but he fucked me anyway.

The first time I ever got fucked, it was Brad Majors who did it. The boy made of nightmares. I can still feel the inversion, the uncompromising push of too much flesh into the tight mouth of my vacancy, that silent rip to shred me warm and fastly animal away from all my readiness to get fucked. Whether it hurts a lot or a little, you love him or you don’t, is irrelevant. He’s slow, he’s hard, he cares, he cries, he rapes you. It doesn’t matter. The first time is always the same in that it never feels like that’s... supposed to go in there.

I didn't tell him no, but I didn't tell him yes. I must have had an instinct regarding the ramifications of what he was about to do to me. One that would suggest a carousel of yeses and nos; Yes, please make me cum. No, make time stop. Yes, make me a girl, but no, don't leave me with this obsession, this need, this faith that I will forever be penetrated twice as deeply as my penetrator can take notice. What will I become, the fluid thing I was born, stuck fast and deep with a challenge of all terrors made flesh?

Oh, God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space were it not that I lost my virginity to the boy made of bad dreams.

Do it, Brad. Don't… do it, Brad. We don't know what comes next.