First time

It’s normal to be a bit scared your first time, Auntie Rose said, but if you’re sure he’s the right one then it will be okay.

I think Stuart is the right one. He’s a nice guy, not like the other leering, crude boys. He’s sweet, patient and understanding (“Sounds a bit gay,” Katie said. “Not gay; sensitive,” I said).

He’s fumbling with his trousers, pulling at the belt. I start to giggle then stop myself. He looks so serious. I cross my arms across my chest, suddenly cold, self-conscious in my underwear.

Gently, he takes my hands and puts them on his hips, puts his own hands on my shoulders and kisses me, his lips soft against mine. He moves his head, starts kissing my neck, one hand slides to my breast, squeezes. I feel him tense for a moment, hear him mutter something.

“What?” I ask, but he just presses against me, breathing hard. I take a step away, but my legs hit the bed and I half sit, half fall onto it. With a surge he’s on me, his weight crushing me into the mattress. I can feel his thing against my hip, he’s kissing me harder; his tongue forces into my mouth.

I move my head away and say his name, wanting him to slow down, to wait, but his hand goes to my knickers and slips inside, his fingers grab at me. I feel sick and remember what Katie said: “The first time isn’t great but you just need to do it; get it over with.”

Stuart grabs at my bottom, yanking my hips up, dragging my knickers away. I bite my lip and turn my head to the side, staring at the snow-globe on his bedside table: a smiling woman in a pink bikini, standing next to a snowman; ‘WELCOME TO BARBADOS’ on the base. Does it ever even snow in Barbados? I close my eyes and try to imagine myself lying on a faraway beach.

Stuart gives out a low moan and I look up but I don’t recognise his face; the lips snarling, eyes brutal and desperate. Again I whisper his name, tell him to stop but he doesn’t hear me, so I say it again, louder. I can feel the tears coming and he’s pushing at me, trying to get inside me. “No,” I say, “no,” but he can’t hear. “Stuart, please stop, please.”

I push at him and he swipes my hand away. I grasp around on his bedside table, feel my hand close round something cold, solid, and I bring it over, hard. It shatters against his skull.

I sit up, pulling the duvet around me. There is blood on my hand and on the glass fragments mixing with the wet snow spilling onto the bed.

Stuart is rubbing at his head, staring at the blood, then back at me. The strength in my own voice surprises me: “I told you to stop.”