This summer, my dearest friend Katharine interned at National Public Radio. During her tenure at NPR, Katharine produced a piece on the 60th anniversary of Harlequin Romance Novels—that esteemed literary tradition that has fanned the fires of post-menopausal women with desiccated sex lives and passionate needs since 1949.
One day, we were joking about the torrid sex scenes in said novels when Katharine mentioned Harlequin’s new series of “teen bodice-rippers.” Seriously? Teen bodice-rippers? What does that even mean? Katharine replied, “I have no idea. But you should write one.”
It was a lazy, late spring afternoon in one of those planned communities composed of homes so large they bordered on obscene. 147 Elmgrove is one such house. It is four o’clock in the afternoon. No one seems to be home. And yet—
The faint strains of “Sex on Fire” by Kings of Leon are wafting down the stairs. They are coming from Jacquie’s bedroom.
Jacquie is seventeen. She is a lithe ballerina with long, gorgeous legs that stick out of her teensy American Eagle mini-skirt and seem to go on and on. She is sleek as a racehorse with perfect breasts; they rise like soap bubbles towards her delicate clavicle. Bring your gaze up a bit further and you’ll meet a pair of inquisitive green eyes in a heart-shaped face. Jacquie has high-gloss lips that feel like satin and taste like strawberry—at least that’s what Tom says about them.
Tom, Jacquie’s boyfriend of eight months, is an achingly handsome soccer player. He is lean and muscled, the proud owner of a pair of delicious biceps and two exquisite quads. Whenever he can, Tom seizes the opportunity to flick his shiny dark hair out of his bright blue eyes with that ideal ratio of effortless insouciance to golden-boy charm. Here is a boy blessed with a perfectly square jaw that is just beginning to bear the first shadows of a man’s virile stubble.
Jacquie and Tom. They are young. They are invincible. They are supreme. They are in high school.
It is a charmed existence to be sure. Something, however, is missing. Perhaps not for Jacquie, but certainly for Tom. That thing— have you guessed yet?— is sex. And on that late spring afternoon up in Jacquie’s bedroom, Tom wanted it.
Badly.
This is the perfect setup for fooling around, Tom thought. Maybe even perfect enough that I can finally convince Jacquie do it…
The Kings of Leon sing: “Your sex is on fire, consumed by what’s about to transpire,” and Tom thinks, Dude. Word.
Let the games begin.
Tom knows that to get Jacquie to even entertain the possibility of sex, he’ll have to do everything exactly right. Just like Coach always says: “Keep your cool, and never abandon the play.”
Tom starts out nice and slow. As he strains to touch his tongue to her tonsils, Tom grazes his hand past Jacquie’s chest, real casual, almost an accident really. And even through her zipped-up hoodie, two tank tops and a padded bra underneath, Tom swears he can tell that her nipples are hard. Everyone knows that means a girl is close to coming. Yessss.
Things are going well. Tom is working furiously to size up the situation when a small sound interrupts his pointed machinations. Jacquie’s sigh. She hasn’t said “no” yet! Not even once! Score. Clearly, the time to act is now. Tom slowly lays Jacquie out full length on the bed and presses himself against her. But through his boxers. And his jeans. And just the tip. And just for a second. Just to see how it feels.
Tom shudders and groans. It’s obvious to Jacquie that Tom wants her. Badly. More than anything else, this knowledge makes Jacquie hot.
But sex? Like for real? What if she has vaginismus? It would be like trying to stuff a carrot into a toothpaste tube! And she said no sex until college. Okay, there had been one— fine, two— blow jobs, and Tom had, like, touched her a few times, but Jacquie was definitely still a virgin. And she would stay that way until college. For sure.
…Then again, it’s not like the year wasn’t basically over already. It’s not like it wouldn’t be totally fine. It’s not like this was Twilight and Tom would freak out and kill her afterwards. It’s just sex! No big deal. Whatever.
After a brief internal debate, Jacquie makes her decision. In the best Megan Fox impression she can muster, she leans close to Tom and whispers, “Let’s do it. Are you ready to come?”
For a moment, Tom hesitates. Jacquie watches Tom as a look she can’t quite decipher flickers across his beautiful face.
“Um.
…I just did.”
