with putting it on, the stench of plastic itching my nose, I lower my head and take some more deep breaths to relax my muscles down there. Gretel would probably be putting the condom on with her mouth or something, but I forgot to google how to do that before I got here.
He smiles.
He kisses me.
He leans me back.
He pushes in.
We’re having sex.
Me and this man who doesn’t know my name. And I’m doing OK.
It’s OK. It’s OK it’s OK it’s OK.
Gretel, of course, is loving it. She’s letting out weird deep moans, even though he’s not touched my clitoris for at least ten minutes now. I’m careful to get the exact pitch and depth of moan right – enough for him to know I’m enjoying it and that he’s so good at sex and wow he can feel good about his ego right now, but not too much that he thinks I’m some loud, slutty porn person. I seem to have got the balance right. Josh’s moaning too. We’re in missionary, which is good actually. My favourite, although you’re never supposed to admit that, are you, because it’s boring. But the boredom of intimacy helps me feel safe. I put my face into his neck and smell him. A moment of being April, of needing this. I know my time allowed in this position is limited. Gretel will want to be on top probably and Joshua’s a man who’s grown up with porn, so it’s only a matter of minutes before he’ll try to get us to do doggy. But, right now, I bury my nose into just below his ear and wrap my legs around him, pulling him further into me. I try to freeze time and stay in this moment, this one moment where it feels intimate and connected and loving and how I wish sex could always feel. I pretend that he loves me, and will always love me. That it’s the one thing I’ll never have to worry about. That he respects me but also fancies me. That he cares for me while also knowing I’m able to take care of myself. That he’s strong enough to accept and work through his personal weaknesses. That he’ll hold me when I cry and never think the reason I’m crying is silly. That he will worship me but never in a co-dependent, suffocating way. And, strangely, lost in this weird trance of make-believe, fantasising about the love Joshua could have for me, I find I’m enjoying the sex. I’m gasping and clutching his back and can feel my body building towards it, which literally never happens to me during penetrative sex ever. Is this the secret they don’t tell you? Hallucinate your way to orgasm? Replace the actual man who is penetrating you with some Colin Firth rom-com character fantasy? They never told me that in Cosmo growing up.
I’m enjoying it. I’m enjoying it. I’m not even having to fake it I’m enjoying it so much. So, of course, of course, Joshua pulls out.
He smiles down, like he hasn’t just done the most annoying thing in the universe. Gretel smiles back. We wrangle about, mix it up. He half-heartedly tries to touch me when I’m on top but then gets lost in how good it feels for him so stops after twenty seconds – but probably still considers himself a good lay because he bothered to try. Gretel loves it. She can’t believe her luck at how good this not-as-good-as-a-moment-ago sex is. Joshua’s face below me looks like he’s won the lottery though I’m not used to being this naked and confident and exposed.
‘You’re so hot,’ Joshua leans up and whispers in my ear.
And, without warning, always without warning, the past regurgitates on me.
‘You’re a fat slut,’ Ryan whispers in my ear. Pain and shame and being too confused to do anything other than freeze up.
Josh is below me, and he’s looking ever so into it, but … but …
I’m not here any more.
I’m there. Staring at the white wall.
The white wall.
The
white
wall.
I can see every pattern of the embossed wallpaper. I’m too shocked to move. It’s hurting. It’s hurting so much. My body is screaming in pain though I stay silent and perfectly still, a primal part of me telling me this is the safest way – the quickest way – to end the hurting. Oww, it hurts so much, but I just look at the wall. Focus all the pain on the wall. A vague part