Page 64 of For Real

Angel nuzzled her shoulder. “I think most people’s are.”

Mine was Robert. I’d kissed a couple of girls before him, but I’d known they were nothing but lies, so I’d never counted them. University was the first place I’d felt safe enough to be who I was. For Robert, it had never been in question. Three days, thirteen hours, and twenty-two minutes after we first met, he put his arms around me, pressed our bodies together, and kissed me. It was softer than I’d expected. I’d been dreaming of a man’s mouth—any man’s mouth—on mine since I was eleven years old, and this was it, as tender as the moths that drifted in the hazy moonlight.

“His name was Daryl Hanlen,” Grace was saying. “I was fifteen, he was eighteen, and he had his own car, so he was a major catch. He’d taken me out to Frankie & Benny’s and then to see The Matrix—a really classy date. Back in the day. In Birmingham. On the way home, he pulled into this lay-by and he told me I was so hot I could be a Page 3 model.”

Sam smiled up at her. “You do have great boobs.”

“I really do. And if I get bored of teaching, I’ll be sure to get them out for the lads. So, anyway, there we were, by the side of the road. He unclipped his seat belt, and I can remember thinking to myself, ‘Okay, Grace, this is it. You’re about to get kissed by a boy. This is going to be awesome.’” She laughed derisively. “He was really gorgeous, by the way. He had an earring. So he leaned in, and he kissed me, and it was fantastic. Just like every naughty book I’d ever smuggled home and read. Everything I’d been waiting for. All this heat gathering in all these places.”

It was easy enough to imagine somehow. Fifteen-year-old Grace with her pale, bright eyes and her not-blond, not-brown hair, so full of longing. I could barely remember myself at that age: a quiet boy, I thought, who studied hard and hid all his intensities in conformity.

Grace reached down with her spare hand and idly touched Sam’s brow, his jaw, the side of his neck. He turned his body fully against hers, nestling, his cheek pressed to her thigh. “The more we did it, the more I wanted, you know? So much more. So I got into his lap, and I put my hands in his hair, and I pushed my tongue into his mouth, until everything was dark and red and hot, and he was making these sounds under me, whimpers and moans, so desperate and helpless and perfect. It seemed like we were kissing for hours. And, for the first time in my life, I felt completely and absolutely right.”

When it didn’t seem like she was going to continue unless someone prompted her, I said, “That doesn’t exactly sound like a disaster.”

She shrugged and went on in quite a different voice, “Next day, I go to school, and suddenly I’ve got a reputation as a crazy slut, and I never see Daryl again.” Her lip curled. “Cowardly prick. I didn’t let anybody kiss me again until I was at university, and I was too scared to do anything, so I just lay there with my mouth open like a dead fish.” She shuddered. “But then I thought: if you can’t be honest during sex, what’s the point? So I went back to doing what I liked. I mean, a bunch of people still said I was a crazy slut, but by then I’d given up caring.”3

“That can be hard,” murmured Angel.

Grace wrinkled her nose. “It’s got easier as I’ve got older. Or maybe I’ve just had more practice. I mean, honestly. What’s the big deal here? I like sex, and I’ve had a lot of it. Good sex, bad sex, kinky sex, violent sex, boring sex. But at least it’s who I am, and nobody gets to take that away from me. And oh God”—she gave a self-conscious laugh—“I’m talking way too much. Somebody save me.”

“All right.” Sam threw himself into the silence. “Ethan Kelly. Grade 3. Behind the crooked acacia tree in the schoolyard.”

Grace glanced down at him. “Huh?”

“My first kiss.”

“Wait,” I said. “Your first kiss was a boy?” Sam’s described his sexuality as suggestible, but as far as I could tell his preference lay strongly with women.

He shrugged. “Carley Jones promised she’d kiss me if I kissed Ethan.”

“Did she?”

“Nah. Guess I got played. Or”—he grinned—“maybe I’ve always liked girls telling me what to do. Your turn, Laurie.”

“Angel first.” Coward.

“Are you sure?” They sat up in a swoosh of fuchsia silk, tucking their legs under them. “It’s a hard act to follow. You see, my first kiss started a riot. How many people can say that?”

Grace perked up like a meerkat. “Now this I have to hear.”

“It was at The Palace, back when I was living in Bristol.” They smiled, pale lips and crooked teeth, not quite shyly but something else, something close to that but different, drawing us playfully into their confidence. I didn’t know Angel very well, but I was struck suddenly by how easy they could be to like, behind their wary eyes. “It used to be my favourite place because it looked a little bit like another world. One night this beautiful boy came up to me and pulled me close and kissed me. It was very light and very sweet, as if he was trying to give me something, not take it. It was lovely.”

They were still smiling, but their hands plucked restlessly at the ties of the dressing gown, exposing the rope burns on their wrists. “But then some people saw us, and it was all the usual fuckwittery, you know. Is it a man, is it a woman, is it a freak, what bathroom do you use, ohemgee.”4

“Wankers,” muttered Grace.

“I know, right? My friends were seriously unimpressed. So it quickly became an argument, which turned into a fight. I don’t know who threw the first, well, slap I think—it was a gay club, after all—but then everybody got thrown out by the bouncers.”

“You got thrown out?” Sam seemed rather impressed.

“Oh, I didn’t. I’d slipped away with the boy while everyone was distracted with outrage. We danced and kissed all night long.”

Sam glanced at me. “You see, you should trust your friends. We’re looking out for your kissing interests.”

“It’s not that simple with Toby.”

“Why not?”

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