Wednesday, 29 June 2011


This was how it started:

He cut a kind of Dickensian figure, curly red hair, skin and bones, sad eyes. You liked how he said your name, how he emphasised the MA. Your friends, all girls, watching Monty Python and laughing, then you in your new world, your different world, on the sofa with him. You were shy because you were shy with everyone. It took touch to open you up. You kissed and your teeth clashed, he tucked his hands under your shirt and up your boyish body, you planted a hand on his crotch because it seemed like the right thing to do. You'd describe it to your best friend later as like trying to tame a snake. You were eleven.

Is there any way to make it sound less sordid? How about that he was only a few years older and your friend's brother, that it all happened in his room surrounded by Star War's posters and school certificates, that it was your direction, your idea, your need to know what made these creatures work? Boys. It was a fascination because it felt good without you knowing why it felt good. And from that moment onwards: boys on the brain and sex like an adventure before it began to feel like a battle.

© 2011 Emma Mould

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