It’s freshman orientation week, and I’m a thousand miles from home. My parents are driving home, after a tearful parting yesterday. I’ve never been on my own.
My roommate, Tessa, is local — she could walk to her house in twenty minutes. She doesn’t feel displaced and disoriented like I do. She knows all the streets, the shops, the hot spots, where to get the best fro-yo. She has a boyfriend — they’ve been together a couple of years.
I’ve never had a boyfriend. Or sex. Or a hot kiss.
Tessa and what’s-his-name are in the bottom bunk; I’m in the top. The only light is from streetlights, through the window.
I can hear them having sex. I know what it involves. I know what an erect penis looks like. I know about how the vagina stretches and lubricates. I know about orgasms… from high school Anatomy, anyway. I can’t quite picture all of the components coming together.
There’s a mirror over my dresser. If I squinch up at one end of my bunk, with my head near the edge, I can see a little bit into Tessa’s bed. I can see shapes in the dim light, and movement, and match the sights with their sounds. I’m flushed, hot, trembling. I’m ashamed of spying, but not enough to stop.
That was last night. This morning, the first thing Tessa said to me was, “For fuck’s sake, next time just get a chair and some popcorn, I don’t want you falling off the bed.” I tried, through my embarrassment, to apologize, but she waved it off and gave me a hug on her way to the bathroom.
I don’t think I want any popcorn.
— Frenulum
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