Skinny Jeans Have No Place On These Thighs
All My Firsts
Marcus takes hold of my arm and we're walking up the stairs, past the blue-haired bitch reading The Bell Jar and up into the smoky high street. Nearby I can see there's a bakery open and I can't understand why because it's so late.
Marcus gives me a cigarette which is lucky because I do find that I really want one now and we sit in a doorway just across the road, smoking and watching people going by.
"Do you still think that I have no awareness?" I ask Marcus.
Marcus looks across and I can see that's he either thinking about this hard or trying to catch a reference in his head, to know what I'm talking about. But those are his words, not mine.
"Am I still pure?" I'm laughing now, even though it's not really funny. It's something but not funny. We left funny behind at the table with the boy and the chili shot.
Marcus knows that everything that has happened in the last month, cocaine, drinking, a pub, a club, these are all my firsts. I'm transitioning because of him. I went from being a meek girl with no experience to a meek girl who's done some lines and been out twice without her Mum knowing about it.
Does he get it though? Does he know how much I think about him? I mean, I know that for him this isn't a big deal. He's eighteen and he's done all this before and of course he's not bored of it but it's not new.
Does he understand how everything is a first time for me? It's sacred and the way I'm ploughing through it all, I leave no time for reflection on what I'm done. I'm not recording what I'm doing, it's just snort, onto the next thing, chug, onto the next drink, what's next?
What is my next first going to be?
"Are you pure? I've touched you so maybe not."
There's something not right in this sentence, his tone is uncertain, not shaky but not firm. This bothers me - I am still pure. I am, I am. I feel dirtier than before but that's because I'm sitting on a step with a cigarette. I'm not touched, not down there, I never let him.
Did he try? I can't even remember. Moments are passing thought my head like flour in a sieve and I can't keep hold of them like I did before.
Is that all it takes? Three occasions of cocaine sniffing and the person who got you started on it suddenly doesn't think you're so sweet anymore?
Because he did think I was sweet, didn't he? That's what he meant by 'no self-awareness, no pretence' even though I was pretending the entire time to be OK with doing the cocaine and trying not to eat to make him like me more and make myself feel less heavy inside all the time.
"You look like you're unraveling from the inside out," says Marcus, taking a long drag on his cigarette and regarding me from over the top of it.
I feel like I am. I'm swollen from a lack of substance. "Do you think I'm different?" I ask him, trying not to look so vulnerable because if I do he'll start kissing me and I don't want that at this second in time. Because I need his thoughts, not his hands. I want his tongue to talk to me, not to try and slide inside me.
"Different from before? Well, yeah, I do."
Wrong answer. It does nothing to cheer me. It doesn't drive me back from the depths of what I'm sitting on.
"Are you on a come down?"
I nod, even though I'm not sure what he means. I don't know if the come down from the previous two times came down or not. I'm feeling cold and Marcus gives me his jacket, only his scent is too much and makes me feel like crying because he's changed me on the inside and the outside.
"I'm getting you a taxi," he tells me and leaves me there shivering while he flags one down.
He hands me a Tenner as he helps me up and then tells me to give it to the driver when I get home. He tells the driver my address and waits until I'm in the car before he asks for his jacket back again.
He doesn't kiss me good bye, just waves from the pavement as he gets further and further away from me.
The driver is a black man and starts complaining about all the drunk white girls he gets in his cabs. If this is directed at me, I am not aware of the reason.
I am not the reason. I'm not the answer to anything and I solve nothing. Not even much of a question, unless it's 'how did a nice girl get into such a state over such a boy?'
...He is such a boy though. I wish he had come home with me. But not in that way. I want his arms around me but not inside me. I don't want to give him a blow job. I'm grateful for the cash though.
I am trying to piece the evening together again in my head. Where did it go wrong? It was the step and the horrible thoughts I had. All the realisations of how I'd changed. It's like I've shaken and raped my own soul, or something just as foul and disgusting as that.
You probably have no idea what I'm talking about but even as I pay the driver and he's still going on about dirty white girls, I can't help feeling that he's not too far away from the truth.
Marcus gives me a cigarette which is lucky because I do find that I really want one now and we sit in a doorway just across the road, smoking and watching people going by.
"Do you still think that I have no awareness?" I ask Marcus.
Marcus looks across and I can see that's he either thinking about this hard or trying to catch a reference in his head, to know what I'm talking about. But those are his words, not mine.
"Am I still pure?" I'm laughing now, even though it's not really funny. It's something but not funny. We left funny behind at the table with the boy and the chili shot.
Marcus knows that everything that has happened in the last month, cocaine, drinking, a pub, a club, these are all my firsts. I'm transitioning because of him. I went from being a meek girl with no experience to a meek girl who's done some lines and been out twice without her Mum knowing about it.
Does he get it though? Does he know how much I think about him? I mean, I know that for him this isn't a big deal. He's eighteen and he's done all this before and of course he's not bored of it but it's not new.
Does he understand how everything is a first time for me? It's sacred and the way I'm ploughing through it all, I leave no time for reflection on what I'm done. I'm not recording what I'm doing, it's just snort, onto the next thing, chug, onto the next drink, what's next?
What is my next first going to be?
"Are you pure? I've touched you so maybe not."
There's something not right in this sentence, his tone is uncertain, not shaky but not firm. This bothers me - I am still pure. I am, I am. I feel dirtier than before but that's because I'm sitting on a step with a cigarette. I'm not touched, not down there, I never let him.
Did he try? I can't even remember. Moments are passing thought my head like flour in a sieve and I can't keep hold of them like I did before.
Is that all it takes? Three occasions of cocaine sniffing and the person who got you started on it suddenly doesn't think you're so sweet anymore?
Because he did think I was sweet, didn't he? That's what he meant by 'no self-awareness, no pretence' even though I was pretending the entire time to be OK with doing the cocaine and trying not to eat to make him like me more and make myself feel less heavy inside all the time.
"You look like you're unraveling from the inside out," says Marcus, taking a long drag on his cigarette and regarding me from over the top of it.
I feel like I am. I'm swollen from a lack of substance. "Do you think I'm different?" I ask him, trying not to look so vulnerable because if I do he'll start kissing me and I don't want that at this second in time. Because I need his thoughts, not his hands. I want his tongue to talk to me, not to try and slide inside me.
"Different from before? Well, yeah, I do."
Wrong answer. It does nothing to cheer me. It doesn't drive me back from the depths of what I'm sitting on.
"Are you on a come down?"
I nod, even though I'm not sure what he means. I don't know if the come down from the previous two times came down or not. I'm feeling cold and Marcus gives me his jacket, only his scent is too much and makes me feel like crying because he's changed me on the inside and the outside.
"I'm getting you a taxi," he tells me and leaves me there shivering while he flags one down.
He hands me a Tenner as he helps me up and then tells me to give it to the driver when I get home. He tells the driver my address and waits until I'm in the car before he asks for his jacket back again.
He doesn't kiss me good bye, just waves from the pavement as he gets further and further away from me.
The driver is a black man and starts complaining about all the drunk white girls he gets in his cabs. If this is directed at me, I am not aware of the reason.
I am not the reason. I'm not the answer to anything and I solve nothing. Not even much of a question, unless it's 'how did a nice girl get into such a state over such a boy?'
...He is such a boy though. I wish he had come home with me. But not in that way. I want his arms around me but not inside me. I don't want to give him a blow job. I'm grateful for the cash though.
I am trying to piece the evening together again in my head. Where did it go wrong? It was the step and the horrible thoughts I had. All the realisations of how I'd changed. It's like I've shaken and raped my own soul, or something just as foul and disgusting as that.
You probably have no idea what I'm talking about but even as I pay the driver and he's still going on about dirty white girls, I can't help feeling that he's not too far away from the truth.
♠ ♠ ♠
This is Ella Spark's first come down.