“Well, neither of us had been with a girl before, it was horrible. Not just because it was awkward, but because neither of us knew what we were doing. We just thought that the other would know.” I chuckle at the memory, realizing how ridiculous that sounds.
I mean, how is anyone supposed to know what to do to you if you don't tell them? Fifteen-year-old me really thought my life was some porno.
Juliette chuckles too, but it's a different type of chuckle, it's dark and malicious, as if she's happy that I had a shitty first time with that girl.
“But girls are still generally better?” She changes the topic.
“Depends on the person, but for me…yeah,” I admit, shrugging.
It's different for everyone. I don't really have a preference, but I can say that most of the time, sex with women is better than with men. It just depends on the person you're with.
Being with girls is the same—it’s shameless and gritty, it’s not as soft as people make it out to be. It’s soft with men too. Even unknowingly, we diminish ourselves little by little to feel more loved.
As girls, we don’t need to diminish ourselves when we’re together, we fit in every sense of the word. It doesn’t matter if we’re bruised, bloody, or empty, we become these things together—we fit.
“So that means your sex life with girls got much better?” She scoffs, looking irritated and I furrow my eyebrows.
Why is she saying that like it's a bad thing? It's like this girl wants me to have terrible sex.
“What about you?” I change the subject. “How was your first time?”
It's so weird that Juliette and I know so much about each other, yet these little intimate details have somehow missed our minds. Then again, why would we share these things? We've hated each other for so long.
So why do I want to know now? Why do I want to reach into her skin and know it like it's my own? To know the secrets that she isn't even comfortable telling herself; stuff she hides in that corner of her mind that no one else is allowed to visit.
She sighs, her irritability clearly calming down now. “I was fifteen too, it was at the end of that year ten party we had. It was a random hook up; I don't even remember his name.”
Talking about her first time reminds me about her boyfriend and I instantly shut down any thoughts about him. I don't want to have to deal with any guilt right now.
Her confession makes my heart clench for some reason. Everyone deserves a good first time; it doesn't have to be cliché like the movies.
I mean, virginity is just a social construct anyway. So regardless, your first time shouldn't be at a shitty house party. Although if anyone else told me their first time was like that, I wouldn't care at all, so why do I care now?
I wasn't even invited to that party obviously, but I wonder what would have happened if I crashed it. Would I have noticed that Juliette snuck away to have sex? Would I have cared?
“Was it good?” I ask, deep down I already know the answer.
“No,” she says in a whisper. “He tried his best, but it was just…empty. I laid there afterwards, wondering what was wrong with me.”
I've never been there, not like she has.
Juliette stops talking suddenly, her jaw clenching and she looks like she's reliving the memory. I feel my heart tearing a little. I move my fingers towards her, interlocking our fingers once again and she holds onto me tighter.
She smiles sadly, taking this as incentive to carry on. “I thought it was because it was my first time and it's not supposed to be good, but it was still empty every single time after that too. I still don't know what's wrong with me.”
I want to say so many things. Things like; You're a lesbian. You don't like men, you like women, but because of your father, you're dealing with internalized homophobia. That's why you just came three times with me, because I'm a girl!
Instead, I say, “There'snothingwrong with you.”
She stares at me, her eyes softening. It's almost as if maybe she can understand what I'm saying, but not completely. I can tell those walls behind her eyes are impenetrable right now, but it's not my job to break them down; even if it feels like it might be.
“It doesn't feel empty with you …” she says in a hushed whisper. “It feelsfull, like the best I've ever had.”
Why is she torturing me by saying things like this? More importantly, why am I leaning forward and trying to envelop her lips with a kiss in response? That's how much her words overwhelm me. At least, I was just about to until a loud stomach rumble ripples through the air.
The audacity of my stomach to rumble and be hungry when I literally just had the most delicious meal of my life: Juliette.
I feel my cheeks redden and it snaps me back to reality almost instantly. “I should go—”
