Cloudy makes love: as (loosely) retold by elgan
11:07 a.m. on Saturday, Mar. 25, 2006
Jack lazily fingered the collar of my mauve blouse before starting to undo the buttons, little pearl buttons marching demurely between my breasts. We were in his bedroom at his parents’ house, all done up in browns, somehow incongruous when the world was turning green and the sky was a gorgeous blue this April afternoon. Even his bed sheets were brown, with a border done in the Mediterranean meandros style. As he gently maneuvered me onto those sheets, I started to get a little nervous at what I was sure was about to transpire.

This was not what I had expected, believe me, when I came over to study for our Egyptian heiroglyphs midterm. Jack was gorgeous, captain of the debating team, brilliant in Greek and Latin. He was studying archaeology and was already well into his deciphering of long-dead languages, and could write with a passable cuneiform script. I had had a crush on him since we were in the same class on the practices of Astarte worship in Mesopotamia, and now he was pulling off my mauve blouse, having finally undone all the little pearl buttons. The rest of my clothing quickly followed, tossed in an unceremonious heap on his bedroom floor.

At the moment of truth I realized that all the movies and novels I’d read had ill-prepared me for this, my “deflowering”, and this was not going to be a pleasant experience. I started chanting mentally “M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I” over and over again to distract myself, like some librarian reshelving books, in the same way I would have done while getting a filling at the dentist’s or, more aptly, a gynecological examination with my legs spread and pinchy speculum inserted. When it was all over, Jack said, “Well, that was fun. Would you like some pie?”

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