But Gretel wouldn’t feel like this. She’d be going with the flow. She’d be kissing back. Fajitas? What fajitas? She’s just so totally lost in the moment. She’s so like that with moments and getting lost in them. She enjoys the impact she has on men. It makes her feel strong, rather than vulnerable.
And I’m Gretel now so I push my panic down and I kiss back. I lace my hands around Joshua’s head, threading his hair between the webs of my fingers, relaxing my body into his. If we could just stay kissing long enough, even April could probably get into this. If he could just stroke my face like he loves me, and take his time, and look at me adoringly, and kiss my neck for at least ten to fifteen minutes and ensure I feel totally comfortable and relaxed and ready then we could have incredible … oh, hang on, he’s pulling me up off the sofa and into his room.
We stumble around, trying to find our way to his double bed – still attached by our groaning mouths. I open my eyes, keen to see what his room’s like. There’s a curious painting of Paris hanging over the bed.
‘You’re so sexy,’ Joshua mutters.
‘I know.’ It seems the sort of confident thing Gretel would say. And it works because he groans again as we fall back onto his bed with freshly made sheets. He lands on top of me, pinning me down, tongue fat and heavy and plunging into my mouth. I twist my head so he’s kissing my neck, and he takes the hint and stays there for a good while. I’m able to find peace in the moment again, in how good his lips feel on my skin. I close my eyes, to hone in on the blissful sensation. If I had the money, and if it wasn’t strange, I would totally just hire someone to come and kiss my neck for ten minutes every day. That is really strange actually. But it feels so good. I let out a sigh, and I don’t know if it was April or Gretel, but it reactivates Joshua, and, typically, rather than thinking ‘she’s sighing because this is really enjoyable, so it makes sense for me to carry on doing exactly what I’m doing,’ he instead thinks ‘hmm, that sigh has really turned me on, let me act on that and go back to what I want out of this foreplay.’ So he stops kissing my neck and starts fumbling to take off my dress. I take a deep breath in the moment the fabric’s pulled over my head, so I’m able to smile up at him when my head reappears. He grins back, his eyes lingering over my body, hungrily drinking me in. Then he kisses me with renewed vigour, taking my hand and guiding it to his erection in his jeans.
Clothes come off.
Mouths emit moans.
Skin finds skin.
I don’t even know this man’s favourite colour and yet he’s unwrapping a condom. While he is faffing about 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 of me, the tiny part of me that hasn’t numbed out completely to keep me safe, is aware, so aware that this is damage. That what he’s doing to me is damage.
Damage damage damage.
Damage.
I’m damaged.
I’m no good and I’m damaged and it hurts so much, but it’s all I deserve. God it hurts. Why isn’t he stopping? I can’t find the words to make him stop. My throat is stitched up. Vocal chords ripped out, screaming silently into the empty hole of my throat. He keeps hurting me. It won’t stop. I just need it to be over. Please be over.