Claire Mott

I caught the nod he gave me with his chin toward the front door: Come outside, I want to talk to you.

I had already dealt with the fact that my parents had to have had sex to create me; but this was bigger than that. Did they do things like this together?

“Working out again?” I ask with feigned idleness.

As we near our destination, we’re stopped by three attractive strangers who hold us up long enough to necessitate introductions. I catch the gleeful look in Alex’s eye upon their approach. I know I’ve signed up for a night worth remembering, so I follow her lead as she proceeds to lie about just about everything.

He suggested I meet him for a drink in SoHo; a curious offer on his part, given he didn’t know what I looked like. To be fair, my impression of him was based on icon-sized photos attached to social networking profiles and strings of author bios…

When it comes to the lurid details, there is a fine line between poorly written romance novels and the admittedly boring reality: sex is seldom glamorous. ‬‬

“Hey, nice to meetcha. I’m Preston.” I give him the once-over. He’s pale and skinny, wearing leather loafers without socks and khaki shorts. His outfit is better suited for a day at the docks than an evening of East Village bar slumming.

The mound of soft hair beneath the cotton caught me off guard. This was my first exposure to a viable thicket of pubic hair in the wild, both intimidating and sexy now that it was attached to a young, lithe body instead of the older women changing in YMCA locker rooms.

School picked up right where it left off after Aaron moved. Fina and I spent an increasing amount of time together, lamenting the absence of our over-protective do-gooder.

I remember the shame of her mom walking in shortly thereafter and telling me I had to go home. My shame intensified when, instead of getting angry, my mother gently told me not to take my clothes off at other peoples’ houses.

I got on the L at 6th Ave. You were giving me the once over through the window before the doors opened so I could get on. You gave up your seat for old ladies and we stood next to each other on the way to Brooklyn.

My cheeks hurt and I hate that these are these are the kinds of words that elicit the best response from me, swellings of pride in my chest; as if I’m actually skinny enough for someone to comment on it.