Fuck fuck fuck. Now what? Now, when they’d taken it this far, and there was no going back, now what? Christ almighty. It had all happened so fast. And her head was a little dizzy still and she supposed that was the martini and the cigarettes. Or maybe she was looking for excuses.
He’d asked if she smoked and she hadn’t wanted to say no to him. He was so pretty, you know. Hands so clean and his hair slick and oiled. And he was wearing the sharpest suit she’d ever seen, like it was made for him and only him. And she didn’t want to tell him no for anything, so she took his offer of a cigarette and she made a show of it and the smoke clouded her thoughts.
She told him she was twenty when he asked. ‘Twenty and never been kissed,’ he said. He was messing around and laughing. She protested that she’d been kissed plenty and a lot more besides. He was touching her arm and it felt like small electric shocks running through her.
They went back to his place. It was close by. She was a little unsteady on her feet, enough that it looked like she was dancing and not falling. And he was dancing too and he kept saying her name over and over as if he had some doubts about who she was. And he kissed her in the dark of shop doorways and his hands touching her underneath her dress, there where no hands ‘cept her own had been before. And she was breathless and rushing.
She’d done stuff before. With a boy at school. But it was not like this. Back then it had been so tentative and clumsy; this man knew stuff and he was quick and sure of himself.
His flat smelled of cigarettes and cat and the stale sour breath of aftershave. He didn’t put the lights on and with the door closed it was like shopdoor-dark and his fingers unpicking the buttons and zippers on her clothes, and kissing her all over and telling her she was beautiful, fuck she was beautiful, and she let him do all of that.
Then they were in his bed and she wanted to tell him to stop and she didn’t want him to stop, both at the same time. And she was making noises in the back of her throat, like an animal when it is asleep and dreaming, and she couldn’t catch her breath and he was pressing down on her and into her and blowing air like a runner. It hurt a little, too, but just for a moment.
Now it was over and she wasn’t twenty any more. Now she was sixteen again and she was cold between her legs and wet. And she didn’t know what to say to him and he didn’t know what to say to her. And when he said fuck again it was different from the fuck he’d said when he was undressing her.
He offered her a cigarette and this time she said no to him, said that she didn’t really smoke.
He nodded and looked away from her. Fuck, he said again.
Patricia Ann McNair 
Fuck fuck fuck. Now what? Now, when they’d taken it this far, and there was no going back, now what? Christ almighty. It had all happened so fast. And her head was a little dizzy still and she supposed that was the martini and the cigarettes. Or maybe she was looking for excuses.
He’d asked if she smoked and she hadn’t wanted to say no to him. He was so pretty, you know. Hands so clean and his hair slick and oiled. And he was wearing the sharpest suit she’d ever seen, like it was made for him and only him. And she didn’t want to tell him no for anything, so she took his offer of a cigarette and she made a show of it and the smoke clouded her thoughts.
She told him she was twenty when he asked. ‘Twenty and never been kissed,’ he said. He was messing around and laughing. She protested that she’d been kissed plenty and a lot more besides. He was touching her arm and it felt like small electric shocks running through her.
They went back to his place. It was close by. She was a little unsteady on her feet, enough that it looked like she was dancing and not falling. And he was dancing too and he kept saying her name over and over as if he had some doubts about who she was. And he kissed her in the dark of shop doorways and his hands touching her underneath her dress, there where no hands ‘cept her own had been before. And she was breathless and rushing.
She’d done stuff before. With a boy at school. But it was not like this. Back then it had been so tentative and clumsy; this man knew stuff and he was quick and sure of himself.
His flat smelled of cigarettes and cat and the stale sour breath of aftershave. He didn’t put the lights on and with the door closed it was like shopdoor-dark and his fingers unpicking the buttons and zippers on her clothes, and kissing her all over and telling her she was beautiful, fuck she was beautiful, and she let him do all of that.
Then they were in his bed and she wanted to tell him to stop and she didn’t want him to stop, both at the same time. And she was making noises in the back of her throat, like an animal when it is asleep and dreaming, and she couldn’t catch her breath and he was pressing down on her and into her and blowing air like a runner. It hurt a little, too, but just for a moment.
Now it was over and she wasn’t twenty any more. Now she was sixteen again and she was cold between her legs and wet. And she didn’t know what to say to him and he didn’t know what to say to her. And when he said fuck again it was different from the fuck he’d said when he was undressing her.
He offered her a cigarette and this time she said no to him, said that she didn’t really smoke.
He nodded and looked away from her. Fuck, he said again.