Ah yeah. Ima gonna see how it looks pasting a whole shortish story here. I've been doing stuff, but not really post worthy stuff. But I did write this little story and submitted it to a local publication. Who knows. I don't even know if it's good, or needs to be good to be accepted. We'll see. Maybe I put in a zine?
SWEET BLOODY LOVE
There is something perfectly awkward and natural and sweet and stupid about the first time you find yourself in bed with a boy you love. All that luxurious privacy, comfort and time was almost more than my young heart could bear. I wasn’t sure how far we would go, but I tried to relax and prayed my body would cooperate. I was delirious with a combination of self-consciousness, desire, trust and fear. Perhaps Clayton was feeling the same way. If so, he was hiding it better than I was. With every noise I jumped and asked if it could be his grandmother. Interruptions did not seem to concern him. All his attention was focused on me and my naked body. That single-mindedness is breathtaking and dangerous.
We heard a key enter the lock and the door bounce against the chain. “Clayton? Clayton, are you home? Why is the door chained?” his grandmother asked from the hallway of her apartment complex. Clayton, feigning disorientation, mumbled something about napping and vague fears of home intrusion. I scrambled my clothes on and slid to the floor on the far side of the bed. Clayton threw on his robe and hurried to the living area to unchain the door. He returned, dressed quickly and whispered a plan. She would need to use the bathroom soon enough. I would wait, ready at a moments notice to be slipped out the front door. Alert, I eavesdropped on their conversation. She talked about her church retreat and how happy she was to take an early ride home. Clayton offered to make her tea. I smiled as I heard him turn the water on and off repeatedly, knowing what he was trying to prompt. She chatted away, not a bladder concern in the world.
Clayton’s grandmother gasped, “Clayton! It’s almost 7 o’clock! You’ll be late for CCD! You need to get going!” Clayton complained he wasn’t feeling well, linking it to the mid-day napping and odd chain-locking behavior. She wasn’t hearing it. And that’s when I heard Clayton leave. I was stunned, hurt and amazed. Quickly accepting the fact that I had an hour and a half wait, I surveyed the state of my own bladder and began crafting the story I would tell. That’s when I heard the door to his room open. His grandmother entered, walked straight to the far side of the bed and kicked me as she leaned over to turn on the floor lamp. “Nicole! Does Clayton know you’re here? You are not allowed to be here when no one is home!” Explaining the less damning story I’d concocted, she interrupted and ordered me to wait at the table while she used the bathroom. I contemplated taking off, but decided that would be admitting guilt. I sat down to await my scolding.
Just then Clayton bust through the door covered in blood. Clayton had been going through a John Lennon phase and favored all white clothing. The white of his jacket intensified the fantastic amount and surface area of the blood splatter. He looked confused and hurt to find me sitting at the table. His grandmother returned from the bathroom before I could say a word. The sight of all that blood further flustered her and she busied herself with nose-plugging, head-tilting and cleaning up the mess. She delivered a baffling lecture. I humbly apologized and promised to never stop by un-announced again. I was allowed to leave and walk the hour plus home, alone.
We had to wait until school the next day to talk. He thought I’d been faithless. I’d worried he’d been callous. While I was settling in to wait out an hour and a half on the floor, he had been standing outside the door punching himself in the nose to save me. We shared some beautiful stories, and really, what more could we ask for.
