I like cats

by Danielle Reid

Returning from school, she would remove her black school shoes with her toes from the opposite foot without undoing the laces. She would hold one hand on the side of the door for balance and gasp as she hurriedly fought first with her shoes, then blazer, which finally gave in and was thrown on the floor in a fit of frustration. She would run into the kitchen, pour a generous dollop of full-cream milk into a bowl and fill it up vigorously with a tower of coco-pops and sugar. Spoon already in her mouth, she would gallop into her bedroom and encourage the door closed with the back sole of her white socked foot, cereal bowl still balanced skillfully in one hand as she slid into the chair in front of her laptop. Putting the Coco-pops bowl down next to the laptop, she fingered at the case, lifting the silver beacon of delight open to reveal the power button and stubbily fingered at it to see the companion she had waited so desperately to see illuminate in a glorious comeback of comfortingly blinding, white light.

She loved cats. There was no reason, no logic to it. It was simply a love that didn’t need justification. They were there with all of their magic, fuzzy hair and shiny eyes like those of slithering snakes, both mysterious and mesmerizing. Cats were simultaneously lovable and fluffy and could be soft and floppy with heavily weighted legs and rubber band backs, or they could be as tense and tight as strung out trampoline springs eagerly waiting to frolic forward and catapult into reality. She couldn’t explain the magnetism that the cat held. It was like a desire that needed to be fulfilled, but despite her greatest efforts spent in front of her laptop constantly stimulating herself by posting cat picture after cat picture onto her blog, there was no satisfaction and she still searched for that drive and fulfillment that she got out of her daily time spent reblogging cat picture after cat picture.

Some of the photos she posted on her Tumblr blog were humorous. There were cats wearing ridiculous hats. Some cats looked deeply unamused and this, in itself was incredibly amusing. Many of the cats were photographed in obscure positions—paws wildly outstretched and clawing manically at the camera. They leapt and jumped, frozen by the flash of a camera and posted in pixels on Tumblr. Some of the cats were just plain cute. They had little noses and tiger-like stripes and were tinier than your fist. She liked these images in particular, but the problem was, that in order to maintain variation in her blog, she had to find new and captivating cat images so that she could really make it cool and entertaining without excess repetition. It was quite important for her to feel as though people valued her blog and she enjoyed getting new followers and comments. It was like a tiny little light that made her feel just a little smug and brim with the knowledge that someone, somewhere liked the same thing that she liked.

The animated gifs were something really amazing. They completely captivated her and she would gently watch the gif loop as she slurped the last of the remaining chocolatey milk from the cereal bowl. She could sit there for some time watching the cat statically jump like a giddy fool at the mouse which was actually a toy on a stick as she, herself tenderly pawed at her hair and smiled inwardly, glowing with pleasure. She would aim to post at least one new animated gif of a funny cat every night. This doesn’t sound like a huge challenge to you or me, and it wasn’t for her at the start, either.

Sometimes she became bored. Especially when she felt like she had seen practically all of the cool cat images. She didn’t have a cat herself because of her allergies and had always wanted to at least take photos of cats, even if it was from a distance and even if it did mean snottily sneezing all over her white blouse and pleated navy skirt. It would have been fine. She could even get changed out of her school clothes and then felt free to sneeze and bluster to her hearts content. She daydreamed about the cats and how she might photograph them. She would like to show the cats in a new way. It shouldn’t be something funny, because she was not a funny person and thought that—yes—even though the funny cat photos were really funny and she did often snigger under a clammy hand at these humorous cats, that the cats that she wanted to depict should be much more sophisticated and deserved the dedication of the revelation of their majestic beauty.

Sometimes she dreamt about things in addition to the cats, especially when she had difficulties finding fresh images to reblog or felt somehow empty about the bleached nature of her world. She had a passion and determination which no-one could surpass, and at many times felt content with her vanilla life, but there were times at school when the other girls sometimes glanced up from their books and caressed their virgin hair with slender fingers which weaved in and out of their shiny, soft waves of mouse-hued silk streams as they gripped the boy with the magnetism of their stare. She saw how the boy tried, with every ounce of manly effort to turn away and to somehow consume just what had happened, but unable to resist the pubescent pull of strawberry curls and gyrating hormones, he allowed just one moment of connection with those shining gems of delightful, come-hither eyes, after which he quickly turned back to his book startled in disbelief and shaken for the remainder of the class, unable to look even his rough, withered teacher in the eye.

Rather than envy, she felt a sense of curiosity towards what this girl could achieve with the simple power of her stare in combination with the caress of her hair. This girl was, in a way the symbol of what the cat was to her. She wondered what it might be like to be like the girl, or in the same sense, the cat—the bearer of such a tight grip of desire.

When she arrived home, she checked her blog to find that she had one new follower and that same follower had liked three of her posts and commented on one of the gifs. It was one of her very favorite gifs, despite it being amusing. One in which a cat had leapt up into the air to catch a cobweb, but in all his focus and might, had lost track of the position of the table underneath him and with his excess energy had managed to allow his hind legs to swing up in line with his head, making him a horizontal flying board which would proceed to rebound back down to earth with a look of panic. “LOL :D” was the comment on the gif and she sat there in complete bewilderment, unable to think of how one might respond to such a comment. She felt exactly the same way, although she had laughed inwardly rather than out loud, but wanted to tell the commenter that—yes—this was hilarious and it certainly should be celebrated. The comment didn’t open itself up for a response, but she felt that there must be a way in which she could somehow show her appreciation to the author. Paralysed by indecision of how to respond, she eventually climbed into bed still wide eyed and quietly pleased that her post had really made someone laugh. And laugh out loud!

That night she had dreamt of hands. They were moist boy hands and they began by starting down by her feet. The fingertips had been so soft and gentle that they felt like little tiny kittens tongues licking their way along her toes and up from her ankles. The fingertips had danced and teased ever so lightly up along the base of her furry-haired legs and had lingered enough to evoke a light, warm sensation, which she had never felt before creep from her calves up to the previously ignored space at the top of her thighs where her legs met her hips. The touch of the hands slowly turned from light and gentle to insistent and demanding and together with the sensation she felt in her pelvis, were heatedly moving up her thighs to where they paused and embraced each side of her underdeveloped hips. With the palms pressed firmly along each sharp jutted hip bone, the fingertips were again freed to smoothly circle slowly in tiny motions, moving upward and inward. The feeling was so strange. She had been drowned in a heavy blanket of anticipation, unable to move and she begged for the pace of the fingertips to increase. She wanted so much for the hands to grasp forward and with the weight of a boy behind them to draw closer to the heated region in each inner thigh, sliding to a point of weighted warm pressure along her pelvic bone. Instead, she felt the fingertips sway upwards past her navel and along each side of her torso where they circled lightly, with each oscillation drawing further along her body, reaching the sides of her prickly breasts. The fingertips danced and pawed to her tiny nipples and stayed and played along the edges where the light, milky skin met the pink part which had raised with curiosity and bravery. They made movements which she thought might be just like how a pixie would play a piano made of crystal, so light and gentle and carefully that it nearly made her want to scream and grab those threateningly soft hands down onto her breasts and clamber hastily on to the cause of the delicately suffocating movements.

The next morning she awoke feeling guilty. Unsure of why she felt guilty, she felt ashamed of the guilt and proceeded to dress for school with a caution that she had not felt before. She pulled for her shirt along each arm and made sure that each button was attended to, firmly fastened and closed. She had glanced down at her breasts which were barely developed mounds upon her rippled ribcage and felt an intense urge to touch them ever so gently like she had learned could be so captivating last night. The moment was gulped down with a sharp inhale and a stern look in the mirror, after which she hurriedly finished dressing and shook the dreams of the night before out of her head.

Running home from school felt exhilarating. She fled and was sure that she was smiling as she ran which made her gaspedly giggle to think of how foolish she must have looked. Her socks had traced down and she made no attempt to drag the cotton rims back up her thin legs to spare her modestly. She danced with the door and pirouetted inwards as she breathlessly lunged towards that sacred screen. With all that hurry, she suddenly felt a strange hesitation to check her blog. In a moment of inward collection, she lifted the laptop case and inhaled as she deliberately typed in the login details to her blog finger by finger. The notification bar was abuzz with blaring red, flaming light. 31 new followers, 7 new comments and 17 reblogs. Her breathing had quickened and she pressed refresh to make sure that this was really happening.

She had no idea what she had done to get so many new followers and just why they suddenly began to follow her blog. Surely it must have been a sign that she was on the right track and she suddenly burst out into a squeak of a squeal as she realised that this was exactly the kind of audience that she needed to fuel her ambitions to post, find and curate the very best pictures that she could possibly find. Frantically giddy with delight, she could start by checking each comment one by one and praise them to the utmost, uplifted emotion that she could muster and devoured each and every word. Most of the comments were from the same author who had commented with “LOL :D” the day beforehand and were of very similar content. Some of the comments were simply smiley faces and projected various degrees of emotion, from downright hilarity to blushing grins and all happy, funny things in between. She liked that this commenter was not afraid to show that he liked many of her posts and she was even more thrilled to see that he had also commented on the photos and gifs which she liked best herself too. There was one image in particular of a cat wearing a carved-out watermelon on his head. The cat looked so desperately unamused by the situation, a deeply grave look of embarrassment that could only be handled by showing his despair by succumbing to the situation and remaining gravely still as those around him pointed and laughed at his ridiculous attire.

The commenter had written “Whoa! HAHA!! That’s hilarious LOL :D”. This time she felt as though she would have to reply, if not only to show her appreciation to the kind author and the fact that they were equally as enthusiastic to share in the cats disdain as she was. She thought long and deliberately about how she would respond and had gone through many different alternatives in her mind, none of which were quite right. They came off either as desperate, out of place of simply much too overwhelmed. She wanted to play it slightly cool and carefree, as though the comment had not provided the overbearingly saturated draping of emotional delight that she was bathing in.

She settled—finally—with a simple, yet effective and neutral response in which she felt would be enough to show just the right amount of appreciation. Nothing over the top. “I know, right.”—With those three little words all lined up and all the punctuation in exactly the right place. As she pressed post, she felt a rush of blood escape her fingers and leant back hard in her chair, exhaling a long and excited stream of hot air from the moist tips of her parted lips. She slid each sock from her foot using the opposite toe and wriggled her freed toes in delight in the dry heated air of her bedroom.

Within less than two minutes, she sees a reply to the comment which she had just posted. The same poster had replied with “ ;) ”. She had never been completely sure exactly what this emoticon meant. Was it a sleazy smile or a friendly, knowing wink. The kind your mum might give you when there is an inside family joke mentioned about dad stinking up the toilet and disguising it with aftershave again, or the slimy kind of wink that your uncle’s beer-drenched friend might give you when you wriggled your woolen jumper over your head to reveal a bit too much midriff after a dinner where your parents drank too much red wine and ended up drooping onto the table with outstretched arms and open, grimacing smiles. Vulnerability took her by surprise and she found herself instantly return the comment without a moment of hesitation, reasoning that there was nothing to lose and that no matter how she interpreted the coy wink, only fun was to be had and the author was surely eager to respond. placing one finger after the other, she responded with a question, which, if was ignored would surely stop her from ever commenting again as it forced action: “Do you have a cat?”. She felt foolish as she pressed publish and then instantly regretted it. She turned away from the laptop and glanced at her fingertips which were stunted and tubby. Such haste had to be punished and she sat wallowing and wondering how she could distract herself.

The laptop had to stay off and she headed for the soothing cuddle of the bath to rinse the delusions of admiration from her dirty body.

School was dull and she dreamt the hours away. The boys were starting to smell and she had increasingly noticed that they were spending much more time in packs, asserting themselves with loud, rude noises and big balls which were thrown to other boys in the hallways. The grace which she thought that they might have had was being smoldered in a smoky cloud of hormonally charged mist and their fingers were becoming rougher from the endless days spent playing with sticks in the field. She sometimes remembered the moist fingers in her dream and longed for the slither of a sticky palm along her navel.

She had already found out everything that she could about the author of the comments on her blog. She had spent hours looking at the content of his blog and had read and reread his about me description on his own blog over and over and over until she choked on each syllable, overindulging on added meaning. “heeeey! This is me. I’m nearly 14 and love Tumblr!! :D LOL. loving Girlz, the cat and fast stuff. Chat to me :D”.

This could only mean the following:

1.He was the same age as her. Well, she knew that she was possibly being optimistic and thought twice of whether he really did exist in the form of a young boy rather than a pedophillic old man, but, of course gave him the benefit of the doubt. He was real. No hack would ever write just like he did.

2.He seemed really happy and enthusiastic.

3.He was open to chatting.

4.He was a he. Or a lesbian. She was again, optimistic.

5.He liked cats. Although, she was slightly unsure as to exactly what “the cat” must have meant. She decided positively that this either reinforced her hypothesis to number 4, or really did just innocently mean that he really liked cats. Nothing wrong with that—she could most certainly relate. Plus the reblogging and comments of her cat images must have meant that he really did like cats.

6.He liked emoticons and used them with vigor and frequency. She would learn how to use these too and substitute some of these with her previously scrupulous dedication to punctuation.

The content of his blog was mainly reblogged photos of scantily clad women and cats, as well as the occasional motivational typographic image, bearing slogans like “A certain darkness is needed to see the stars” and “New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings”. I guess he was pretty thoughtful, she thought and she wondered whether he might be more articulate in real life than he was when writing comments on her blog or whether the posted quotes served not as inspiration for an enlightening new aspect on life, rather as a reminder to correctly punctuate sentences. She was being silly and admired his conflicting traits and decided there and then that he was a boy of morals with a heart for empathy and grace.

She had not checked her blog since posing the question and the next time she returned home she had noticed the panic clouding her head. She desperately wanted to recheck her blog and see whether there was a reply to that question. In addition, she hadn’t enveloped herself in cat picture for some time now and felt nothing more than this urge to feast on the world of visual delicacies. Cautiously, she opened her laptop and logged into her blog, telling herself not to expect anything and to merely be delighted that that boy had replied to her posts in the first place.

The comment “I luv cats” welcomed her as she was once again mesmerized by the many and blinding notifications in the bar on her blog. Yet more followers, more comments and more likes. Although she had an increasing number of followers, it was the comments which made her the most excited. They were from just the one author and he greedily commented and commented on post after post and insistently sought to open a dialogue with her. Or, maybe he didn’t, but she felt that not to reply would be rude. Plus, the comments had her secretly imagining who this author must have been, already validated by her insistent “research” that she had achieved, she admired that he was able to write with such freedom from humiliation. In a way, it belittled her to think of just how generous he was with his emotions and words and yet she could barely think of a suitable reply or have the bravery to actually press post when she finally did think of something half intelligent, yet nonchalant enough to reply with. He was well and truly unashamed in his multiple comments and at times almost brimmed on the edge of being over the top. Throughout the week of excessive reblogs, comments and likes, she had finally taken the initiative to respond to his request. “Cats are cool, but where do the cool catz play?” he had written in response to a cat in a carry bag with it’s slender head poking ridiculously out from between the bars of the cage. She was drunk on courage and had felt inspired on her way home, promising herself that no matter what, she would today be brave and make a huge leap forward.

Her response, after much contemplation, was simply “Cats play together at the TATE. Meet me in the main hall on Saturday at 10.15am.”

Already having decided what to do with her hair—have it slung in a simple low ponytail and fastened tightly by a red satin ribbon in a bow. She would leave some of the hair to fall out from the sides of the ribbon so that she may be able to twist her finger in between the strands, though she already knew that her hair lacked the shining magnetism that she saw had captivated boys in her school. She owned a blouse which she was well aware would be just transparent enough to reveal the fleshy pink of her nipple, yet opaque enough not to look too suggestive. She would wear a bralette today made of only elasticised white lace so as not to ruin the faint stain of nipple underneath. The bralette didn’t need to be fastened and was something which slipped over her head with outstretched arms. She pulled her socks up over her knees and made sure that she folded the edges over so that the socks became thicker on top of her knee. Her blouse tucked neatly into a starchy pleated navy skirt which skimmed the top of her knees. She knew what she was doing, yet took subtle touches to ensure that the overall look lingered on the side of innocence rather than overt. Leaving the house was simple because she was ready for this.

The TATE Modern is a huge space which overwhelms the senses. Sometimes they have big exhibitions in the main hall and this can be especially exciting. She had once stood for hours resting her hands on the wooden ledge and let the artificial sunshine melt every single node of tension in her legs until she felt the need to sit down and just breathe for a few minutes. She had suggested meeting him here because she knew that the space was big enough to escape if he had become dangerous and also because it provided many chances to talk about the art if the conversation was dry. She had studied the artists and their works here before arriving to make sure that she was informed and had something to say, although art had never really interested her as she thought that it was the occupation of bored people who found that they had to grasp onto the meaning of everything and live in either the past or the future without respect for the present. There were also few artists who shared her aesthetics. She felt somewhat ashamed that her taste was juvenile compared to that of the other visitors in the TATE and suddenly wondered whether this may have been a huge mistake.

She would know what he looked like because he had posted pictures of himself on his own blog. His face was fresh and he had an expression which both brimmed with arrogance and hid his insecurities and he held his iPhone in front of his chest as took a picture of himself in front of his mirror right after brushing his hair to the left out of his forehead. He was fairly pale and had no real defining features. He looked pleasant and neutral. Someone who couldn’t offend but who would fade into the future without making a huge mark on others. He was the middle stream of gentle mediocrity and he would be fine and happy and fairly satisfied if given the chance to just be himself. She liked this about him and felt as though the self portrait showed him as being vulnerable to peer-pressure to which she herself felt immune, although was clearly not. She was sure that he must not have known what she looked like as she had never posted a photo of herself online before. Instead, she had relied on the descriptive use of her language to plainly reply to his insistent requests as to how she looked. She had responded only to write: I am short, inconspicuous and will tie my hair in a red satin ribbon. She leant against that same wooden ledge where she had once needed to steady herself against the artificial sun and waited for him to approach her.

There were times when she thought that she had been fooled and that he had taken her for an emotional slaughter in some terribly sick game in which she was as stupid as the leaping cat itself, who had forgotten where the ground was and had flung itself into the air so high that only pain would be felt upon landing for such blatantly courageous acts. It wasn’t until she spotted a boy glance and approach her with a downward head and upward glancing eyes that she felt the foolish dread begin to sink. He was intense and clearly nervous and she could tell by his deliberate movements that he had told himself that he must walk with confidence and determination in order to overcome his paralysation. It gave her a great deal of joy—a selfish feeling of joy—to see that he was scared. He looked better in real life than he had in his photo. Firstly, he had a shirt on, which helped him look far more down to earth. He had clearly taken an effort to care for how he dressed, as his shirt was a fad, slogan t-shirt which she had noticed all of her peers wanted to bathe in these days. A hideous red bar with the word “Supreme” emblazoned in big capital white letters was plastered across his chest. Their eyes met and he managed to allow half a curled lip to creep upwards towards his cheek to show his delight for finding her.

Do you like cats he asked to be sure that she was the right one. He could see her recoil slightly, but bring herself back into the moment as she glanced menacingly to the side and confidently nodded as she replied, “yes. Of course I do.”
It was difficult for them to look at each other because they were both aware that doing so might be too intense and send the wrong message. She didn’t want to seem like a creep and neither did he, but they both so desperately longed to gaze for a moment too long—to binge in the deliciousness of the others face and consume the social awkwardness of the energy between them. Walking together was quick and they mumbled meaningless words to get them out of the way before they could really get to know each other. She matched his pace and watched his shoelaces fling back and forth as he strode with too much confidence. She had wanted to tell him that his shoelace was undone, but didn’t want to upset him by shattering his own illusion of himself. She made sure that she walked so that the pleats of her skirt would swing from side to side and so that her low ponytail would shift gently along her back. There were times when she would stand in front of a heavy Rothko for moments too long so that he might take a peek over his shoulder and grace himself with the pleasure of inhaling her. She thought that she would make for a pretty picture herself, all coy and grown standing in front of such a rich and deliberate work of art.

Some of the rooms at the TATE Modern were dark and had art films being played in them. These were areas of high priority because they would allow for moments of heightened stimulation and tightened emotion. She was not sure who he was and she didn’t really care too much because she had long ago decided that he was going to be the person that she would explore for a while. So, she had lured him carefully into a room which was dimmed and had street views of Berlin from the 1930s being shown in a loop over and over again. There was just one chair which was long and wide and she placed herself onto the far end of the chair to invite him to sit next to her. He had glanced several times at the end of the chair in the position next to her. She crossed one leg over the other and let her lower leg pull down her sock ever so slightly to reveal a section just below her knee. He sat next to her at a terrifying distance and she felt the gaping huge crater between them and knew that no amount of shuffling could close this gap.

What happened next came as a surprise to her; and having already decided on her next move—to brush past him and exit the room—she was startled at the movement of his hand which moved closer to her on the bench. It didn’t quite touch her, but stayed at an excruciating 10 centimeters away where she could feel his heat and practically lick the raging pheromones exuding from his every gland. The temptation to move her hand into his, to push her smallest finger which had become sticky into him and for them to meet, to finally touch was overwhelming. Thankfully, he—in a swift and courageous movement—pulled himself along the smooth wooden bench towards her and now sat where his hand had been, fully able to grab her and push his arm around her miniature waist. He didn’t touch her, but stayed collected in an electric bundle of nerves to himself just a few centimeters from her. The endless loop was grey and dreary and 1930s Berlin was flickering along in muted light, which illuminated the side of her face and highlighted the tension which was drawn in stuttered shared breaths. He had noticed that the situation had caused him to sweat slightly and his inner palms became choked with wet droplets proving his shameful lack of bravery. Wiping his hand on his stiff jeans, he swiftly snuck his hand onto her lower thigh, which was nakedly revealed thanks to her sock having been pushed down earlier. He had left his hand there for some time without making a move. He needed this stability to muster the actions which he had run through his head often before: That feeling of narrow virgin thighs so smooth and young. He would be sure to devour every inch in full glory, probably not today, but he knew that his task would not be fulfilled until he made her legs coil together in delight and he licked places which she hadn’t even thought of yet.

They left the TATE Modern without anything more happening, except awkward mumbles about the artists, neither of which the pair knew anything about. Nevertheless, they agreed with each others’ sentiments of how weird contemporary art was and how much of a lie it is of the artists to expect us to spend our precious time and money—and in this case—their emotions on viewing things purely aesthetic and subjective. It wasn’t until they had slumped into a worn Starbucks couch that they got to touch each other again.

The day was young and light and there were the usual clientele in Starbucks. Teens sitting for hours on end, purchasing the cheapest beverage on the menu while browsing their iPhones and giggling at texts from unrequited boy and girl romances. They were worn out by the nerves that had gripped them earlier and now, with this much anticipated chance to fully relax, they came close to each other and let their bodies sink down together.

He started quickly by shifting her skirt up towards her navel and snuck his hand along the inner edge of her thigh. His movements were fast and deliberate only so that he might not be tempted to retreat through lack of courage. He had left his hand here for a few moments and ensured that her skirt fell back over his hand to minimise the possibility of judgmental glances. His next move was to circle his fingertips along her soft fish-belly textured thigh and move with grace and thought upwards towards her white cotton underpants. He fumbled with the elastic at the top and had to shift himself closer towards her as she became warmer and quieter in breath. He had sufficiently pulled her underpants down enough to be able to reach the innocence of her soft skin never before caressed and did nothing except explore the texture with the tip of his finger. He did not go any further, even though he had wanted to. She became so still and the paranoia of being caught by a prying Starbucks patrons made him hesitant to take things further.

They had left on a high and knew nothing much more of each other, except that they had enjoyed being wild and cultured. She knew that she had to have more of him and she was so selfishly desperate to feel his hands pressed on her hip bones so that she could feel the weight of his body push her into her mattress. They raced home and she wondered when he might have to change directions in pursuit of his own home. They hadn’t discussed where the other actually lived and she was surprised that he stayed in her direction for so long. With long swinging strides, they had just about reached her house and she suddenly felt a strange wave of fear as she realised that he was now at her doorstep and must by now have known exactly where she lived. Considering her options, in a moment of deluded haste, she thought why not invite him in? She had wanted to spend more time with his touch anyway and by inviting him inside, she would rule out the chance that he may become violent towards her. She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him towards her, flexing her toes and standing taller to reach his ear. “Want to see my bedroom?” She asked him in what was intended as a whisper, but was probably more of a stuttered girlish taunt. He was not at all surprised by her question and confidently nodded and already made for the direction of the front door. She was sure that her parents would not ever suspect a thing and she walked straight through the living room with him beside her before closing her bedroom door behind them.

They sat next to each other on the bed and neither of them really knew what to do. She began by very plainly removing her blouse, button by button with a similar care and attention to how she had done it up that morning. There was nothing romantic or vulgar about it, simply a move that signaled that she was ready to take things further and a gesture to encourage him to follow lead. He actually stood up, which confused and tinged her with embarrassment. He used his full hand to open the case of the laptop and proceed to turn it on. Unsure of what he had intended on seeing and slightly concerned at the possible content which might stare stupidly back at him, she flung herself next to him, grabbed his hand from the laptop and pushed it heavily onto her bralette encased breast under her half unbuttoned shirt. They looked each other directly in the eyes for the first time that day and stared without emotion, simply succumbing to that very momentary flight of nothingness. He wildly began to move closer to her with heightened breath and rapid fluidity. His hand pushed harder against her chest and he began using the base of his palm to forcefully circle her breast, while the other made attempts at removing the rest of the shirt buttons. Frustrated with the lagging pace and lack of cooperation of the shirt buttons, he grabbed her with both hands around her waist and started to kiss her hairline at the base of her neck.

The kiss was dry and rough. Nothing like what she may have once imagined and it was with his pursed lips, he swung his head from the base of her neck back around to her flushed mouth and pushed his hard, savage lips against hers without prying the fortress of his lips apart. She had thought about how it might have been to kiss a boy and she had practiced on her pillow before as well as researched online to see how you did it properly and what the best strategy would be to tackle your first kiss.

She had read that you should mirror what the other person does, as their own actions usually imply what they, themselves prefer. She thought how it might have been to purse her lips and with dry, stiff moments rub them against his in a raw and puppet-like fashion. This surely couldn’t have been right and she thought the better of it, hoping that if she might inspire him with parted, soft, moist attempts at sensation, he may just change his strategy and part his own lips and they might even touch tongues. It was an intriguing thought for her, this tongue rubbing idea. She had never really been into strange textures and even sweet, sticky jelly had at time proven difficult for her to swallow as just thinking of the texture made her recoil in disgust. She thought that tongues might be like slimy slugs and upon careful consideration, came to the conclusion that the textures must have been identical.

They found themselves fall onto the floor. The bed was just behind them, however for whatever reason, the floor felt like the more natural option. He had won against the blouse and she had been submissively aware of his movements and tried to make every awkward gesture be buffered by her mirroring. They were next to each other and he had by now leant up on his arm to better reach her face with his lips. She thought that she should bend her legs upwards so that he had the option to again tug at her underwear if he had wanted to. She let her knees fall into each other, which had encouraged her skirt to fall in between her legs and begged to be pulled aside. He pulled away, methodically removed his pants and underpants and socks in one long struggle, half sitting, half lying with flailing, outstretched arms and legs. Had she not been there right on the floor and the reason that he was removing his pants, socks and underpants, she thought that she would have laughed at how ridiculous he looked. She took a kind of pity on him, but also mainly on herself, especially for the fact that she did absolutely nothing to help him, and stared in dismay as he tried desperately to look cool and in control.

Sex was something that she had no experience with, but was fondly curious of and although she wasn’t really aroused by sex scenes or the act or idea of sex, she often sifted through some of the Tumblr blogs which showed soft porn. She wondered how it might feel to have sex and for a penis to be inserted violently into her vagina, but felt quite disgusted by the idea. Sex seemed something dirty and something that sperminator-type pimply boys did because they couldn’t control themselves and had to clean their dirty minds by ejaculating all over place as well as the empty vesicle of a vagina to become human again. Sometimes, she just wanted to know how sex felt so that she could get along with her life and look again at pictures of cats without worrying about this increasing preoccupation.

The thing that had most disturbed her about losing her virginity was the fact that it was completely hands free. In a dramatic contrast to the dream that still lingered in waking hours, the one where the hands were the sole reason for increased temperatures and expanding nipples, this sex was nothing more that two bodies joined at a place which they both felt uncomfortable with. He had wrestled enough to remove all of the clothes below his waist and despite already having unbuttoned her shirt, felt it somehow unnecessary to proceed in removing her clothes and instead had pushed her now creased skirt up so that it splayed in a large circle over her stomach and chest. In fact, rather than gently revealing her now exposed white elasticated underwear, he had—with the foul sweep of his lower arm—swept her skirt upwards as if to eradicate it’s ugliness. He was splayed above her with the stature of a horny dog and had one hand planted firmly on the carpet to the right of her and had used his other hand to shift her underwear to one side where he expected it to magically stay in place. He needed to free his hand to act as a strange instrument for aiming his erect penis into her. He had not really breathed out so loudly, instead clearly panicking with nerves, he had become stern and stiff and wanted more than anything to enter into her. It didn’t necessarily turn him on that much, but he thought that the thought of not being able to achieve what humans had achieved for generations and generations beforehand would severely emasculate him into an antisocial mess of a half-man boy. So he was at it, jamming himself up against her pubic bone and all manner of area around this region with frustration and determination. Things were just so rough and dry and although he was extremely hard, he had not considered the muscular fortress that was a virgin vagina, which was so shy that coaxing wasn’t just simply an enhanced lubricated stimulation for the female, but rather a completely mandatory act, only after which would he be able to slide into her. She lay still underneath him and with a slightly unamused cloud of regret hovering in her body, felt that it was probably time to take action to spare them both the humiliation. She spread her legs wider and lifted her pelvis slightly so that he had better aim and so the she was at a similar height to where he mindlessly gyrated.

She felt a sharp, grating pain with his success and after many squished efforts of planked heaving into her groin, they had achieved in loosing the same thing at the same time. It had really only lasted a couple of minutes before he silently came and withdrew, immediately grasping for his clothes to try and save his modesty. Neither of them had made a sound throughout the entire experience and there was absolutely no way that it would now be appropriate for words. She lay there on her bedroom carpet with her skirt still raised and underwear pulled uncomfortably to the side and waited there paralysed while he quickly pulled his socks back onto his feet. He was now standing above her and they once again met eyes. She couldn’t read his expression—somewhere between shame, pity and exhilaration and he looked even slightly sad as he turned around and left, closing the door behind him.

After he had left, she lay on the ground and let her eyes gaze up to the cobwebs grazing the corners of her white washed ceiling. She left her skirt where it was, lying there heavily on her torso as a burdening reminder of the surreal physical acts of haste now behind her. It was a curious feeling of closure, loathing and mild exhilaration. What had just happened would never happen again and was something that she couldn’t erase. It was just there, a moment of itchy lucidity and stark clarity that allowed her to feel as though she was sinking into the ground with an odd sense of conquering pride.

She had seen a cat photo posted on one of her favorite blogs a few days earlier. The cat was a wild, wooly creature which looked like the dreadlocks of an unshaven, unbathed man she had seen on the way home from school one day. The cat was sprawled on its back on a tatty tan leather recliner with its front paws outstretched luxuriously towards the arms of the chair. The cat had a pilled, navy blanket which looked to have been slobbered on by the house dog—all matted and riddled with nature. The blanket covered the cats lower limbs and stomach.

She had thought of how this cat looked so desperately happy and satisfied even despite its dishevelled appearance and dirty environment. It just lay there, deflecting every sensory stimulation with a harsh yet satisfying emotional distance and gloated with an eerily warm satisfaction.