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Showcasing creative writing by university students around the world.

Illustration by Anya Glazer

Illustration by Anya Glazer

Published Wednesday, January 30th, 2013

Words by

In My Room

It wasn’t until I had a moment alone that I began to worry. Any minute now, Annie, or Amy, would come upstairs and join me in my room and I wasn’t ready, nothing was ready. I don’t know what conclusions she’d come to about me over the course of the evening, but the fact that she’d agreed to come home with me meant that she probably hadn’t pictured Simpsons posters on my wall or a collection Beanie Babies under the bed. The bed. That was going to be an issue itself. It was really quite irresponsible of my Mum to let me choose my own bed when I was twelve. A high-sleeper is a great idea when all you want to do is build dens and run up and down a little ladder, but my priorities have changed somewhat in the last eight years, and a little ladder doesn’t exactly ease the transition from sofa to bed.

It wasn’t until I had a moment alone that I began to worry. Any minute now, Annie, or Amy, would come upstairs and join me in my room and I wasn’t ready, nothing was ready. I don’t know what conclusions she’d come to about me over the course of the evening, but

the fact that she’d agreed to come home with me meant that she probably hadn’t pictured Simpsons posters on my wall or a collection Beanie Babies under the bed. The bed. That was going to be an issue itself. It was really quite irresponsible of my Mum to let me choose my own bed when I was twelve. A high-sleeper is a great idea when all you want to do is build dens and run up and down a little ladder, but my priorities have changed somewhat in the last eight years, and a little ladder doesn’t exactly ease the transition from sofa to bed.

 

What does a sexually accomplished twenty-year-old’s bedroom look like? Probably quite bare, minimalistic, a few choice postcards from various art galleries on the walls perhaps, and some cult classic titles conveniently jutting out of the bookshelf. Maybe a collection of old vinyl records piles carelessly in a corner. And a bed that’s at ground level. Did people just give their rooms a complete overhaul when they turned eighteen? There’s tat from every year of my childhood on display; stray Pokémon cards, football trophies, class photos, posters of bands I liked when I was fifteen. I don’t know what Mr Sexually Accomplished Twenty-Year-Old would make of it. He’d probably smile wryly and drop the word droll in somewhere. How do all those guys do it? My parents are asleep downstairs (if Amy, or Annie, hasn’t fallen on top of them thinking she’s found the bathroom) and my little sister’s next door. Do they expect me to be doing this sort of thing? Or are we moving into scarred-for-life territory?

 

Condoms. I don’t even have any condoms. I’ve never had any need of condoms. That’s what Mr Sexually Confident has in his top draw, a shitload of condoms, not some spare shoelaces and a few Crazy Bones. This is the stuff no one tells you though; it’s probably the kind of conversation your Dad’s meant to have with you; as relieved as I am that he never subjected me to that most excruciating form of child abuse it has slightly scuppered me now. Do I use those shady-looking machines in the pub toilet and pay two quid for a couple of suspicious jonnies? Or does one buy in bulk from Tesco? Presumably people do buy them, but I’ve never seen a multipack of Durex on the checkout conveyer. Do they do home-brand? Probably doesn’t fill a girl with confidence though, even if they do come with a satisfaction guarantee. To be honest, she probably has some. It’s because of idiots like me that girls know not to rely on guys in this department. Not because we don’t care about the benefits of safe sex, just because we’re bloody clueless.
 

There goes the toilet flush. Has she gone for a pre-intercourse dump? Should I? That’s got to be the worst thing I could possibly do on my first time, actually shit on her. There’s no coming back from that, no laughing that one off. Even if people eventually forgot, which (let’s face it) isn’t likely to happen, the memory of my first experience of making love would be forever tainted with the smell of my own faeces. Anyway, not exactly getting in the mood, she’ll be up any minute now. How clothed am I expected to be? I don’t want to seem presumptuous (heaven forbid either of us should acknowledge what we’re here for) but equally I don’t want to stick on my Pyjamas. In fact, I should probably hide those, Mr Sexually Confident sleeps in his boxers, or even better, just naked. Au natural. Letting it all hang out. God he’s a prick. I’ll just stay clothed, that’s a pretty safe bet. Might be quite fun to have her help undress me too, as long as she’s careful with my shirt buttons. I’m all for surrendering to the throws of passion but I’m not made of shirts.
 

She’s coming up the stairs now and I’m starting to sober up, not sure whether that’s going to work in my favour or not.
“Hey.”
I’ve stood up to greet her and she’s already unbuttoning my shirt. Carefully. This is good. I’m definitely ready to do this.
“How strong is that bed?”
Holy shit. She means business. I’m guessing by her grin that I’m meant to have prepared some sort of sexy reply, assuring her that my rickety high-sleeper has the structural integrity not to collapse under the strain of our violent intercourse. Or something. She probably got that from my childish giggle anyway. God, she is so gorgeous. She must still be drunk. Again, not sure if that’s going to work for or against me. She’s probably really good at sex, and expects me to be at least competent. It can’t be that difficult, I mean, would nature make it difficult?
 

At least she hasn’t commented on the posters or Pokémon cards. I guess she’s not bothered. Not bothered where she is or who she’s about to shag. Part of me kind of hoped she’d laugh at something, then I could pretend to be embarrassed and she’d think it was cute. This all just seems a bit impersonal. I can’t talk though; I’m leaning more towards Amy than Annie now. Right. Focus. I’m probably kissing really badly. Again, never received any tuition on that front, I’m not saying I wanted my Dad to show me, but there should be instructional pamphlets somewhere. What did she just whisper in my ear? Can’t really ask her to repeat it. Bit clumsy. Do I whisper something back? Some sweet nothings (whatever they are)? No good me trying to

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tell her what I’m going to do to her, I have no idea. My cover would be blown. Should I just tell her I’m a virgin? Lower the bar a little? Or is that the kind of information which leads to her sobering up and another night of innocent spooning? Better not risk it. My clothes are coming off now. I don’t know what I’m meant to be doing, and the fact that she keeps sighing probably means I’m getting it wrong. Is this how Mr Sexually Confident felt on his first time? Does he even exist?
 

“Harry, hold on.”
Great, she’s actually putting a stop to this. I’ve managed to fuck this up. An incredible achievement really, given the circumstances. And yet I’m not completely devastated.
“Harry, the thing is…”
Your penis is too small? You look about twelve? I’ve found your pyjamas? You’ve shat yourself? Hit me.
“This is actually my first time. I’m sorry. I’m probably acting really weirdly. Do you still want to…I mean I do if you do…?”
I find my hand reaching up and stroking the hair out of her face, her beautiful face.
“Yes, Annie, I really do.”
“It’s Amy.”
 

Fuck.

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