I TASTED SAND by E.L. Woods (NSFW)

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I tasted sand. It ground between my teeth, rubbed up against my fillings, slid behind my tongue. I thought that this was not as romantic as I thought my first blow job would be; was I even doing this right? He seemed to be enjoying himself, leaning back into the log that separated the asphalt from the ocean, remaining hard under my concentrated efforts.

He was taking longer than I thought he would to finish, and when he did I felt awash with relief that I’d succeeded in getting him there, like only I had been able to produce this sticky, warm result. In retrospect I realise that it doesn’t take an artist to get a guy to come, just a willing mouth.

The wind came off the water in chilling sprays. I grew embarrassed as he shrunk back into his trackies. He offered me a hand and lifted me from the dunes, leading me back to his car where we sat in gentle silence. I suddenly felt the shift – the realisation that I’d done something so definitively ‘grown up’, that graduating from high school really had started to change me.

He called himself AK and I still don’t know what those letters stand for. I’m convinced that the only reason he showed me interest was our shared Middle Eastern heritage and my willingness to let him grope me on the dark marina.

As the sun blazed down on the shore the morning after, my thoughts turned to him and the mixture of hope and dread that I would see him again. I stretched out, skin roasting, and chided myself for being so easily enamoured. This was summer, where love evolved into a myth and all that remained was 100-proof fuelled lust and foolishness.

Night came on again and I stood on the uneven grounds of The Continental Hotel, looking around the crowd for the briefest sight of my two-lettered friend. He was there, and then I was gone, both of us left thinking about what would have happened if we’d left there together.

I found the answer in someone else, blond-haired and fictionally attractive. He crashed into our house with four others in tow and took me straight to my bedroom. I felt so suddenly alive as his hands ran all over me, and then so suddenly cold as his fingers tried to delve too deep. I was embarrassed by my own shyness, my inability to be like all the girls I was so jealous of. I tried to make it up to him with a hand job. He came on my favourite pyjama shorts and ate all our food. One of his friends sexually assaulted one of mine and I bared my tits to two of them because I felt like they were owed something.

How badly I was dying to feel wanted; too tubby, too brainy, too boring for the boys in my suburb. Later that night, when I was huddled on my bunk clasping the hand of my best friend, I made myself feel ashamed for becoming someone I didn’t recognise; begging for approval and forgiveness like a sinner before God.

I was gone the next morning, watching the shoreline whip past from my seat on the bus, my hoodie on despite the heat with the hood angled just enough to cover the bruises that Fictionally Attractive had left down my neck. I felt a swell of pride as the city limits sprung into view; pride for behaving so wantonly for the first time in my life. I thought of my friend and my pride turned to sickness as I thought of what she endured so that I could have a boy pay attention to me for a little while.

Then I thought of AK and I tasted sand.

***

E.L. Woods stumbled out of a Creative Writing degree at RMIT University with the intention of becoming a screenwriter. Eventually. She briefly worked at Disney World before finding a moderate amount of success in her current role as an Operations & Admin cog for a facility management company, having written and edited articles for their website and bi-monthly newsletters. Her work has also been published on Fanciful Melbourne and Historically Her Story.

 

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