I was a virgin, I was 17, he asked for a ride home from the party at Oryan’s house, I said ok, excited, anxious, wanting. I drove him home slowly in my blue-green honda, North on the 101, silently, the empty beaches, the streetlights, the police cars, watching.

I played him three-mile-pilot, I played him blackheart, he was impressed that I knew them, being younger and all.

My CD player skipped to the next album, he made fun of me for liking sublime**, I said maybe they are just ok, I dodged a bullet.

We pulled up at his mom’s house, deep oceanside, wet air clung to my lips, I turned off the engine, he tried to kiss me, I let him. He asked me to come inside, I said “with your mom there and everything?”, he said she would leave us alone. She did.

He led me to his room, one hand on my wrist, I tried to tip toe behind him in heavy leather boots, he opened the door.

Overhead lighting, the smell of his room, like glycerin soap and nag champa and boxed wine and unwashed sheets. I undressed so he could touch me, he asked if I wanted coke, I shook my head no, I looked at the floor, embarrassed.

He got undressed, he eyes looked right through me, he was uncircumcised, I was surprised.

He grabbed my hair, I retracted, he said I was frigid, he snorted a line, he answered his cell phone, he put it in anyways.

I lived in that room for the next year and a half.

* in my memory that night sounded like this:

** I still like sublime