Young Love

My ornery, lanky limbs clumsily climbed over her, a mop of messy hair falling onto my oily forehead, obscuring some of the acne that covered most of my face.  She smiled nervously behind a veil of freckles and guided me toward her.  My pants were half off and my penis stood eagerly erect, rooted in a mass of pubic hair that was thicker than all of the meagre undergrowth my fellow seventh grade friends were proudly displaying to each other in the boys room.  This was something I boasted about to the guys and pompously presented to them when questioned about it, but in front of her I felt embarrassed.  Her pubic hair was much thinner than mine, which I expected both because she was only in the sixth grade and because her chest was still quite humble, but her pasty flesh and comforting smile were more than enough to secure my interest.  Next to her I just felt like a hairy beast.

Earlier that day I had been playing basketball with some friends on the playground at school.  It was Saturday but the recess bells still went off letting us know what time it was.  Shortly after ten o’clock three girls came through the courts on bicycles, not much younger than us, and one of them, Corrine, the one who would be laying beneath me three hours later, parked her bike underneath the nets and watched us play.  The first couple of times the ball went of bounds she grabbed it and handed it back to me specifically.  The third time she just winked at me before running away.  My friends all looked at me, expecting me to chase after her, so I did.  When I caught up to her she flashed a wide smile at me and said: “Meet me by the big tree on the other side of the playground at one o’clock.” before burning my left check with a hurried kiss.  I returned to the court with a beat red face and a stupid smirk that gave away my excitement and made me the victim of ridicule for the next hour.

Three hours later I was leaning over Corrine, my bare knees pressed into the mud and my pants down to my ankles asking her if she had a condom.

“Don’t worry about that.  It’s alright.”

“But what about diseases, and getting pregnant?”

“Trust me.” she said, taking my penis into her hand and pulling it toward her, and I trusted her.  I had never done anything like this before and it seemed clear to me that she had.  I assumed she knew what she was doing and in turn listened obediently and unquestioningly.

It went in smooth and the tip of my penis became instantly warm, a soft, slick pressure that was foreign to me at the time, massaged my penis with moistness and I enthusiastically began to push it in further inside her.

“Slowly.  Gentle.”

I pulled back instinctively and complied with her words, moving my body with as much patience as I could.

When the full length was inside of her, her mouth opened and the shy, nervous smile changed drastically.  Her lips pursed together and the corners of her mouth dropped, her eyes welled up and her hands pulled my bony body closer to her, hugging me as the tears began to escape her.

“Do you want me to stop?”  I asked nervously.

“No, just get closer to me.”

I slowly dropped my body to hers, letting my weight rest on her, feeling guilty as she cried, wondering what was going on inside her head.

“I don‘t want it to be his.” she whispered.  “Not his.  Not his.”

I remained silent, ignorant to what she was talking about, and before two minutes were up I reached climax and ejaculated inside her, embarrassed that I went so quickly.  “Sorry.”

“Just lay her with me a minute.”

Every Saturday and Sunday for the following three years, I played basketball in that same spot from nine in the morning until dinner time hoping she might drive by on her bicycle again.

The next time I saw her, I was in the eleventh grade.  She was walking down the hallway in a short skirt and a tight, low-cut top.  I noticed her breasts first this time, then her legs, and as she walked past, her ass.  Everyday, on the way to my math class I took the same route hoping to catch a glimpse of her, to see what she was wearing that day.  The blue rayon top, the hip-hugging jeans, purple, valour shirt, the frayed denim skirt, the tight cotton top with light and dark green stripes.  Everyday it was something sexier than the last, and every night I would masturbate to the thought of fucking her.  It was three weeks before I even noticed it was Corrine that I had been staring at/jerking off to, for nearly the first month of the school year.

Nervously: “Corrine?”

Arrogantly (with her friends turning their noses at me): “Yeah?  Do I know you?”

Looking up at the lockers: “James.”

Curiously: “James?”

Hands in pockets: “Yeah, from Oakdale.  Like, three or four years ago.”

Remembering: Her eyes moved up and to the left, and then returned to me with a confused look.  She didn’t seem to remember, and as I began to panic that the girl who I lost my virginity didn’t even remember my name, I noticed that there was a tender shadow under her left eye, hiding beneath some makeup and my hand reached into my pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.


Still curious: “I don’t…. I don’t remember you.  Did you go to that camp?”

Confused: “Camp?  What camp?  No, no camp.  I was playing basketball with my friends.  On a Saturday.  We….”

Embarrassed/disgusted(?): “Oh, yeah. Um….”

Sincerely/hopeful (handing her a paper): “Here’s my number.  I’ve noticed you in the halls and I… well, I wrote it down for you.  If you’d like to call.  Maybe?”

Politely/relieved: “Yeah, sure.  Alright.  Thanks.”

Hurried/relieved: “See you later.”

March 17th 1987

Dear Diary

Julie got another new Barbie which she refuses to take out of the box.  I don’t understand what the point of even having it is if you aren’t going to take it out of the package.  I argued with her about that today and I think she is upset about it.  But I still like going over there.  Her mom makes the best dinners, and she’s got so many toys, and so much clothes.  And always there is dessert after dinner.  And pop.  I can drink as much pop as I want.

My ‘visitor’ didn’t come yet.  I think its late, and mom says that I’m young and that it isn’t regular the first couple of years, that my body is changing and growing, but I’m worried that it means something else.  I can’t ask her.  She’ll know for sure, and she’ll be upset with me.  I think she knows already though.  She came home early, and when dad left my room she was already putting the groceries away.  She didn’t talk to dad at the dinner table that night, and he couldn’t look up at me.  He hasn’t looked up at me since he started this.  I hope it is just my body changing and nothing else.  I want this to stop.  And I want mom to stop yelling at me.  To stop slapping me.  I want dad to stop…

Was dad like this to Chrissy?  I want to ask, but I am too embarrassed.

I think I’ll go over to Julie’s tomorrow, her cousin is going to be over so maybe we’ll go for a bike ride and make up a dance routine for that new Madonna song.


“I’m on the pill now, so don’t worry about it.”

We are in the town house where I live, on my bed with ‘Home Sweet Home’ playing on my cassette player.  My parents are out Christmas shopping and we are alone.  She had been teaching me how to go down on a girl, and I actually kind of like it now.  It was a weird taste at first, but I got used to it and now I can stay down there for thirty minutes at a time.  At first I just pushed my tongue inside her and wiggled it around, but she told me that I should just concentrate on the clit.  I push my tongue on it, lick it, up and down, side to side, I press it between my lips and suck it in and massage it against the roof of my mouth with my tongue.  And the clit doesn’t taste as bad and the inside.  I can usually make her cum twice before we even have sex, and when we have sex I can last over ten minutes when I am on top, and when she’s on top I can’t cum at all, so we can do it for a long time if we do it like that.  We’ve tried doggie style a couple of times, but I can’t seem to put it in that way.  There has got to be some sort of trick, but since I’m the only one of my friends who gets blow jobs, I’m okay with no doggie style.

I haven’t asked her about the bruises yet.  I don’t know how to bring it up.

January 21st 1992

I tried covering up the bruises, but I know he saw them.  Why didn’t he ask me about them?  I want to tell him.  I want to.  But how?  What will he think?  Will he still want to be with me?  How will he act around my dad?  My mom called me a whore again, and I told her to go fuck herself.  That’s when she slapped me.  Dad was drunk the first time he did it, the first time he ‘hurt’ me, but she’s always sober.  Every time.  What is her excuse?  I tried telling her about dad again, and she just hit me harder and called me a slut.  The first time she said I was lying, the second time she said it was my fault.  Shouldn’t she be helping me?

  I like James a lot.  He’s nothing like Curtis who was just as bad as my Dad.

Cautious: “Can we talk?

Worried: “About?”

Concerned: “The bruises.”

Thankful/in denial: “What?”

Firm: “The bruises.”

Shamed/comforted: “Well…”

I wish I had know what to do back then.  What to say to her, how to help her.  I’ve had this hero complex ever since.  I feel like I didn’t do enough and now I have to make it up to every other girl I go out with, which really pisses them off.  “If you father molested you, you can tell me.”  I say it with thoughtless sincerity, but most of them are insulted when I suggest their father is capable of being such a monster.

“He hurt me.”  I can still hear those words to this day.  The ambiguity of them.  The ambiguity of that word ‘hurt’.  I was hoping it was just hitting, just a slap across the face, or a punch.  But it was her mom that did that.  The kind of hurt her father was guilty of was the worse kind, the kind that can really make a sixteen year old boyfriend feel pathetically powerless.

I never knew why she went back to that Curtis guy.  I mean, I guess I know why she left me, but….  He was far worse than I ever was.

If she had stayed with me…

May 12th 1992

Julie told me yesterday that her and James fooled around.  I asked her how much?  I asked her what they did exactly?  What “fooling around” meant?  She just kept saying sorry and crying.  I asked James about it, and he just looked at his feet.  He cried to, and said sorry and that he wanted to stay with me, and that it would never happen again.  Some birthday present.

Curtis has been calling me a lot lately, apologizing, saying he’s changed, so I talked to him about it.  I told him what Julie told me.  He said James was an asshole and didn’t appreciate what a good thing he had.  We are supposed to get some tea together, maybe smoke some after, if he’s got any stuff left.

My dad has been really good lately, and mom has been laying off me too.  Dad even got me a necklace for my birthday, real silver with a cross.  He spoke to me and apologized again about everything.  I kinda felt bad for him.  He started crying and everything, but he did that last time too, and even after that he still…  Anyways, I gave him a hug and told him I loved him and that it was alright.

I haven’t seen her at school this year.  Julie doesn’t look at me, but I stopped her in the hall at the start of lunch the other day.  I asked her where Corrine was.

“I don’t know.”

“Why isn’t she at school?”

“She dropped out.  She moved in with Curtis.”

“Why? Where?  How can they afford it?”

“She moved because of her parents.  She couldn’t take it anymore.  And Curtis makes lots of money, you know that.”



“What about her?”

“She doesn’t talk to me James, not since you and I…”

“Fuck!  I just want to talk to her.”

“Look, just forget about it.  She’s messed up and that’s that.”

“What do you mean messed up?”

“I mean with Curtis and the drugs, and her dad and her mom. And her sister.  There isn’t anything anybody can do.  It is the way it is.”

“Her sister?”

“Yeah, Chrissy is in the hospital again.”


“Never mind.”


“I’m sure she’s out by now, but last time I talked with Corrine she said she didn’t want to turn out like her sister, that she wanted to get away.  With the money Curtis earns from… well, he can afford to get her a place, to take her away from that.  I know he’s an ass, but she’s better off with him than them, and you couldn’t afford to take her out of there.”

Shamefully silent.

Rambler About Rambler

Jason John Horn is a writer and critic who recently completed his Master's in English Literature at the University of Windsor. He has composed a play, a novella and a number of short stories and satirical essays.

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