Sex Stories: Bare by Negesti Kaudo
“You are naked in the darkroom”
"Sex Stories" is a regular NAILED column in which all kinds of people write about sex.
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At sixteen years old, you found yourself naked in the darkroom. It was mid-afternoon during exam week, so only a few people were still hanging around to get work done. You didn’t have a car, so even though it’s a half-day you had to stay until five when you’d be picked up: it’s almost three. You started painting while waiting for the boy who’d recently made you aware of your own libido. You’d invited him to come sit with you, to watch you paint. Ten minutes ago, he stepped carefully into the art room through the door you’d left cracked and you told him to shut it behind him. You were careful and took precautions. The door to the art room locked from the inside, so no one would be able to walk in quietly and cross the black curtain barrier that keeps the darkroom light-tight. He sat next you and put his hand on your thigh; a bold move for someone you were still getting to know. You told him you were wearing a skort, so he wouldn’t be able to conveniently crawl his fingers under the hem of your navy skirt because of the attached shorts. You thought that would either stop him or motivate him and you weren’t partial, not leaning towards one or the other. You just wanted to see what would happen.
Silently, he led you into the darkroom with his rough fingers wrapped loosely around your bare wrist. The darkroom wasn’t dark, which surprised both of you because secretly you wanted to be in the shadows, so you could pretend like it wasn’t a big deal and leave as if nothing happened. But a light was on, a single bulb hovering in the center of the small room behind the curtains, and you had to recognize that this was a thing, that you were both about to do something you shouldn’t.
He stood in front of you and you both stared at each other, like blurred reflections. His face was like a mask, always defaulting to a frown or a pout and you never knew what he was thinking or what he wanted, so it scared you. Dark brown eyes like tar pits and whenever you looked him in the eye you felt stuck, as if he was peeling back your skin and muscles to get to your bones and see what you were really made of. You used to hate his nose: wide-bridged and stereotypical, it reminded you of your own and you hated it, but you got over it when he became relevant, when he started to cling to you, when he began to mean something. Only months ago did the two of you start talking and he had quickly weaved himself into your life, opening you gently, revealing secrets that you didn’t even know you’d had.
“Can I take it off?” he asked you, and you thought it charming and polite, even as his fingers pulled you closer by the spandex waistband of your skort.
“All of it?” You meant your skort and your underwear, which were kind of cute: pink with leopard trim. You wore them just in case something like this happened. He only nodded in response, still playing with your waistband. He was only a year younger than you, but much more experienced in the science of relationships. You had no experience. It was only three weeks ago that he taught you to kiss by pulling you into the lean of his body and looking at your lips. You were surprised to find his lips were as soft as they looked and later, you told him that was your first kiss. You like it when he touches you because you know he wants you, even when he’s frowning. “Sure.” You let him undress you. He pulled down your skort and your underwear at the same time and all you had to do was step out of the pile on the floor. Your layered tank-tops came off next – both of them. He only needed one hand to unhook your bra and it fell to the floor too.
You are naked in the darkroom.
You are naked in front of a boy you don’t even love and won’t until months later when you trade touching for talking and he becomes more than just a body to explore. You are surrounded by your clothes scattered on the floor while he stands in front of you fully dressed. Until this moment, no one has ever seen you naked. The only things you still have on are your Mardi Gras beads. A single purple beaded necklace hangs from your neck, dangling down in front of your breasts. Later, after the moment has passed, you’ll feel like a whore because of those beads and what they represent. But right now, you don’t feel fat, ugly or ridiculous. For the first time, you feel wanted and sexy. His gaze all over you makes the blood rush to the surface of your skin, making it redder than usual.
His shirt comes off and you’re not sure if it’s because he feels overdressed or because he’s hot. The mahogany torso in front of your face is hairless besides a faint trail of black hair leading below his waistband, and you have a desperate urge to touch that skin, so you let your fingertips kiss the center of his chest, right above his sternum. He is warm and the room smells of sweat and Old Spice and flesh too close together. This is an appropriate time for him to kiss you, but he doesn’t. He hasn’t kissed you since that first time, even though he knows that’s all you really want. It’s too quiet not to be in the dark. The school year is over, so no photos are being developed – there is no blood red tint in the room, no photos hanging; the single bulb illuminates the corners of the small room. You feel so small in front of him, even though you’re older, but you have no control. You’re the naked one with the purple beads rolling on your skin.
Still, you’re the reason that the two of you are here. You wanted to see if you could make him like you, that’s how this all began. It took you months of flirting and teasing to get to that first kiss, which was inevitable, but still unexpected. He told you he’d take your virginity, something you’ve never forgotten, but an offer you declined. He was as eager to lose his virginity as he was to take yours; turning it into something you could do together. Around you he was bold and unafraid, but normally he walked with his head down, shuffling to get around. You told him to walk with his head high, boosting his confidence. You had been in control, taking your time to seduce him – old school – and everything was on your terms. Until that kiss. He made that happen.
“Turn around.” His voice is a growl and you can feel that something between you has shifted. You turn around slowly, questioning him in your head. Facing away from him, you are more vulnerable than you were before, a feeling you don’t like, and it makes your bones go rigid. He bends you with a single hand and your palms are flat against the surface of the countertop you hadn’t realized was there until he bent you over it. Now, you know what he wants. Last night, he told you that whatever you did today would be fun, would be nasty. You like fun, you like nasty, but this isn’t how you wanted this to happen. You didn’t picture yourself braced against the same stained countertop your friends have developed photos on, underneath the empty clotheslines where photos have hung and dried, in the brightly glowing eye of a single bulb.
For a second, you consider it, but you shake your head and tell him “no.” You hold your breath and hope he listens to you. You feel him back away. His body no longer pressed up against you and you straighten yourself up, trying to regain some of the dignity and control you’d lost. He sits in the only chair in the room, covering his face with his hands, breathing into them heavily, getting more and more frustrated. Standing in front of him, you grab your beads, sucking them between your lips as you think about what you can do. How you can possibly make up for saying no to the surprise, unprotected sex he wanted, sex that neither of you are ready for. You let the beaded necklace fall from your mouth, the beads wet against your skin. “Are you mad?”
“Yes.” His eyes trace your body head to toe before looking you in the eye.
“How mad?”
“I could punch a hole in the wall.” He stares at you blankly, and you feel colder, less human, because he thinks that sex with you could be that easy. You don’t doubt what he says because he’s come to school with bandaged hands before and the last thing you want is for him to break something. You know what you can do, but you’ve never done it before. It’s a wild reality that three weeks ago you were completely inexperienced and now here you are: naked, standing between his knees. You’ve talked about it during late night video calls and the last you knew, he hadn’t ever had it done before. You bite your lip, looking down at those eyes, feeling stuck. You want him to be happy. You stop thinking about yourself and the consequences. You don’t think about the fact that you aren’t in a relationship with him. You didn’t want one; the thought never crossed your mind. You’re thinking about how he won’t break his hand when he goes home, how he’ll probably keep talking to you, how you won’t jeopardize–but instead further–your budding friendship. His hands are on your body as you think and it’s distracting, but persuasive. You don’t want be seen in a submissive position, so you tell him to close his eyes: he can’t see. You tell him not to touch you, to keep his hands to himself or it’s over. You take back what little control you can.
This is the beginning. This is your offering. This is how you show him you care. This is the turning point for what will happen between you and him. You will look back on this moment and remember being naked, the rush he gave you with just a look, the way you put him before your pride and dignity to make him happy. Whenever you come back to this room, the memory will take over you, making your head spin as if it was happening right then. Your mouth will dry when you look down at the dirty linoleum floor and graze the back of the chair with your fingers. When he breaks your heart, you will return to this moment – the first time you gave him a piece of you. Eventually, you will give him everything, all of yourself, until there is nothing more to give and he will take it all. The vulnerability, the sounds, the spasms, and the taste – neither of you will forget.
But right now, you are just a curious teenager, naked and on your knees.
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Header image courtesy of Feliz Paloma Gonzalez. To view his photo essay "Undressed Solitude," go here.
Negesti Kaudo is a born and raised Ohioan who indulges in writing raw, the occasional margarita, and lipstick. A recent college graduate, she will be moving to Chicago to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing: Nonfiction at Columbia College Chicago. This year, she received the 2015 Ohioana Walter Rumsey Marvin Grant and her essays can be found online at NAILED Magazine and Vagabond City Literary Journal. She intends to eventually blog and/or tweet about her ventures in Chicago via @kaudonegesti (Twitter).