Bustle.com
2.9.16 | Laura Gianino
“You OK?” A boy asks me in the middle of consensual sex. His hands are firm on my hips, his breathing ragged in my ear. I turn my head to the side, twist my mouth into a grimace. He’s having trouble getting off, he tells me. He’ll finish soon, he promises. One quick thrust.
“It hurts,” I tell him.
“You want to stop?” He says without pausing. There's a slight annoyance in his voice when he continues, “I’m really close.”
I don’t remember the feel of this boy’s hands, I don’t remember his caresses or kisses, I don’t remember the words he said to me before we started having sex. I do remember his heaviness pressed against me, the way he pinned me down by the very act of what we we're doing; his erratic, persistent, insistent movements, his loud pleasure and my pain. I remember speaking this quiet, muffled answer: “Kind of.” But it’s unclear — I will remind myself later, for days, for weeks, for years — what exactly I have said "kind of," to. It’s too noncommittal and it’s too late.
