After that song ended, and then another, it was time for me to get off the table. I hadn’t taken off my shoes, which were nearly platforms. I had no clue where my clothes were. I started to step off, and rolled my ankle. Not bad, no real pain, but I started to fall. Fortunately, there were plenty of hands there to catch me.
Lots and lots of hands. Everywhere. All over me. And I liked that. A lot. I didn’t complain, so the hands carried me into a back bedroom, and they continued to touch me. All over. And I let them… (you’ll have to get the book to read this).
The room was full of boys and girls, and they were all looking. Some of the girls even had their own hands down the front of their jeans…(you’ll have to get the book to read this).
I said it didn’t really matter. It did matter. At first there was the embarrassment. But that came from what other people said and did. How they looked at me for the next couple of weeks.
It came from stupid Sarah Baine asking me “don’t you just want to die?” when I ran into her a couple days later, and Michelle Sampson whispering “slut” under her breath when she was serving me a cappuccino.
But it is true I wasn’t going to be around town very long, so that part didn’t matter too much.
But every time I remembered all those hands all over my naked body, an electric shock would shoot from between my thighs to the top of my head and down again, my breathing would change and I would want more of that.
That’s where the shame came from. Because I liked that and wanted more of that. It was really, really confusing, wanting something I was not supposed to want. I hid from it that summer, and if anybody got up the courage to ask, I said I was really drunk and didn’t remember, or said it was no big deal.