Punk Love

After the picnic, the guys went to play soccer, and the girls talked about online stores they liked.

Ah, shopping, the passion of every anarcho-communist.

Some people retired into the woods, presumably to have sex or to enjoy the odd satanic ritual. Now that I was paying more attention to things that weren’t Alex, I realized there was a mish-mash of people. Yes, there were the “good” kids. The straight-edge bunch. The vegans. The kind that rebelled within the rules and expectations their parents had set for them. But there were also a bunch of skinheads I was totally not down with, and a bunch of people in leather who chain-smoked and looked like they were on something north of alcohol and weed.

I made a few new friends (Ainsley wasn’t one of them. I know, try to look shocked), and before I knew it, dusk descended on the park. The sky was awash with baby blues and soft pinks, streaked with orange and gold. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore lulled me into blissful, deep-boned exhaustion. I longed to get back into the suburban Volvo, make out with Alex, and see what else he could do with his tongue.

And to pee.

I also very much longed to pee.

Like, very, very much.

Alex and the rest of the guys finished their soccer game. Tom got back to making out with Jadie. Alex wasn’t super into public affection, which I respected. I loved that we kept people guessing. That we showed restraint.

When he sat next to me, I squeezed his hand and whispered in his ear, “If I don’t pee right now, my bladder is going to explode and you’ll have to take me to the hospital.”

Alex frowned. “I hate hospitals, and besides, your bladder is connected to another organ of yours I have an interest in. Come with me.”

We stood up and marched toward the woods, followed by catcalls from everyone else, claps and whistles conspiring about we were going to do there.

Alex found me a good, discreet spot behind the bushes.

“Here’s good. I’ll spot you, hurry.”

He craned his neck, looking serious and oddly protective, as he shielded me with his body.

I squatted down, closing my eyes and mouthing a silent prayer to God.

Dear God,

It’s Lara. I know we haven’t spoken in a hot minute. This is just me asking you to please grace me with a girly pee. Nothing too loud. And if you can, please make sure I don’t pee on my shoes or panties or skirt, that would be swell, too.

I promise to fast on Yom Kippur.

Okay, kidding. I won’t.

I mean, I will, but I’ll drink water, okay? Because not drinking water is really dangerous for me. I’m anemic.

Okay, done now.

Bye. xo

Maybe it was the xo that did it, but God was good to me that evening.

My pee sounded like wedding bells.

When I was done, I groaned.

“I don’t have anything to wipe with.”

Alex frowned, still looking ahead, dutifully not peeking.

“What about a leaf or something?”

“Aw. Gross. And what if it’s poisonous? I don’t want to die of…” I wasn’t going to say pussy poisoning. I was never going to utter this combination in his presence. “…of something.”

“Yeah. Okay. Wipe with your panties and throw them away.”

“I’m wearing a skirt. I can’t go commando.”

“Your hand?”

“Alex!”

“Fine. Sheesh. Use my shirt.”

“What?!”

“I’m dead serious. Use my shirt. It’s just a few drops, right? Who cares?”

“I do!”

“I don’t.”

That was the grossest, most romantic thing anyone had ever said to me. Which was both sweet and sad in equal measures.

“That’s insane. Anyway, it’s drying up because I’m letting it hang.”

This was way too much info, but hey, if he was going to take my virginity, which was something I’d already decided was going to happen before he even sent me that very first ICQ message, he was going to have to take the bad with the good.

And…real talk? There was a whole lotta bad.

I peered down between my legs. If I put my panties back on, I was probably good.

I felt a warm whoosh of fabric landing on top of my head. I plucked it out. When I looked up, Alex was shirtless. His back was still to me. He had a glorious back. Not super muscular, but triangle-shaped. Smooth and long. Like he hadn’t filled into his tall frame quite yet, but was getting there.

“Wipe,” he ordered gruffly.

“I’m good.” I laughed, standing up and rearranging my skirt. I took a greedy sniff of his shirt when he wasn’t looking.

Ahhhhh. Heaven.

His sweat, laundry detergent, and singular Alex scent engulfed me. This was better than coke. Not that I’d ever tried coke, but, c’mon, it was Alex—the best-smelling teenager on planet Earth. I wanted to steal his shirt and sleep with it.

“I saw that,” Alex deadpanned, smirking smugly, but still squinting to the darkening horizon.

My eyes widened. Bastard.