I was seventeen. She was twenty-two. We worked together. Her boyfriend was my dad’s boss’s son. (You may read that twice.) He was twenty-five. Big. Tough. A college football player. I was scrawny, small. They were fighting. We were all at a party. Drinking. Heavily.
Somehow, she and I were against a sink, kissing wildly. She was the aggressor.
I have no idea how it started, how it progressed. But soon, we were in my house. My dad was away. We stayed up all night. On my loft bed. Under my loft bed. Under the dining room table. On the couch.
She was the first girl (woman) I’d been with who seemed not to be reluctantly agreeing, but aggressively pursuing, sex.
We fucked seven times.
We fucked again the next day. And the day after that. And that was it.
We liked each other, and our friendship was unaltered.
We remained good friends for the rest of the summer, but I haven’t seen her since.
Her boyfriend never said anything to me.
Occasionally, I see him.
Occasionally, I hear an update on her.