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Knock Loud

He stood in line in front of me at the drug store.

I backpedaled, my heart in my throat, and hid in the aisle where they kept the condoms and baby food.

He’s not mine anymore.

I peeked around a juice display. He stood in line, totally oblivious. Dirty blonde curls. And his lips. He’s got beautiful lips.

He looked good, and it irrationally hurt my feelings. He shouldn’t be better looking. He should be forlorn at best. Heartsick.

Better yet, dirty.


He was scruffier, at least.

I wanted to touch him. I wanted to kiss the spot on his neck that made him squirm. I wanted to relive every second of every time I’d put my hands on him. I wanted to go farther than that.

He looked bored; his head tilted to one side.

He looked harmless.

All at once I felt like an idiot, hiding in the condom aisle and spying on my ex-boyfriend like a crazy woman.

I hadn’t seen him in two months, not since the big stupid, crying, heart-ripping-out, breaking-up horror show.

I finally had an appetite again after losing fifteen pounds.

I missed him.

I hated him a little.

I was terrified he might not miss and hate me. I had a persistent suspicion that no one might ever miss me and hate me.

Screw it.  He wasn’t even looking my way.

I took a deep breath and walked back into the line.

A little old lady with her oxygen tank stood between us with a million frozen tv dinners and a huge jug of cheap wine in her cart.

He stared out toward the front window. He might not notice me back here at all, or he might just look right through me.

Deflated, I clung to my stupid little basket full of hair products.

Why should he bother looking back?

There wasn’t any reason for him to look back—not physically or metaphorically.

I’d have climbed up into that boy’s shirt if it’d been socially acceptable. I thrilled a little at the thought, but the last thing I needed was to be turned-on in the drug store.

The old woman shrieked out a sickly death-hack borne of long term lung disease.

The cashier started scanning his items.

The elderly woman hunched over, gripped the counter, and coughed harder. I grimaced. It had to hurt.

Justin looked back at her.

Then up.

Eye contact. Hazel. More green in them than I remembered. He was surprised.

What to do now? Nod? Wave? Angry sniff to the back wall? Desperate plea to take me back?

Oh, please take me back.

He didn’t give anything away; I didn’t get a smirk or a twitch. He looked almost sad. His hand came up. The defeated one finger wave.

Better than the bro nod.

The old woman wheezed.

The cashier gave him the total; he swiped a card.  Glanced over.  He snatched the bag and bolted out the automatic door.



A nice girl doesn’t sleep with her boyfriend just because it’s the third date. She refuses repeatedly. She justifies it all: afraid of the distraction; didn’t want to end up pregnant; needed to focus on school; sex changes everything.

She didn’t have to.

She was scared.

She didn’t like the pressure.

This all upsets him.

Tensions rise. Resentment sets in.

They break up, and then she spends the next two months thinking she should have just slept with him. What would have been the harm?

I’d always been a nice girl. The kind of girl that worries about getting in trouble.

I didn’t drink much, either, but one leftover hard lemonade in front of the TV wasn’t going to kill me.

Besides, my homework was done, and it was a Friday.

I’d half-hoped he would call or text just to acknowledge he’d seen me.

Probably he’d gone home to shave before having sex with some golden, beautiful sorority skank.

The way imagined exes sometimes do.

I sipped my cheap booze and watched overly-tanned idiots complain about food.

I missed his smell.

I missed the feel of him. He had soft skin, which had surprised me. It seemed to me that boys should be rougher. I missed his shoulders and forearms. I even missed the feel of that insistent, resentful bulge. I almost missed awkward hand jobs.

Were all hand jobs awkward?

He was more patient than I’d given him credit for.

I missed his mouth.

I missed him.

And he wasn’t coming.

Justin. The white boy my father hated.

I should have had sex with him after that uncomfortable dinner with my parents. He’d deserved a reward for putting up with Dad.

My mother said, “He’s very polite.”

He didn’t do anything stupid. He had excellent manners. It’s not like he was some frat jerk that couldn’t carry on a conversation without mentioning anal sex or video games.

I closed my eyes and yawned. If he showed up, I would hear him, right?

If the phone rang, I’d hear it.

I turned the ringer up just in case.

Not that he’d call.

I should sleep.

Fuck this piece of shit tv show.

I never said curse words aloud.

But I said them in my head all the time.

I remembered what those warms hands of his felt like over my breasts. I remembered what his collarbone tasted like. I remembered clenching his leg between my thighs, squeezing while I tried to catch my breath, his mouth on my neck. My hand down his pants. His hand up my shirt.

It’s only a show of being a good girl. My roommate wasn’t home, so I could pass out thinking dirty thoughts on the couch if I wanted.

In the future, I should take advantage of things when I have the chance. Fear is an imperfect system for self-preservation.

Who wanted all these regrets?



Cop knocks. Loud.

I bolted upright and pushed the hair out of my face.

What time was it?

Late. Had to be.

Another trio of knocks. I hauled myself off the couch and looked out through the peephole.


Maybe I’m still asleep?

You don’t get to stop him in the airport and kiss passionately while people applaud and uplifting music plays.

You don’t get to yell her name across the church and stop the ceremony before she marries the dastardly villain.

And you certainly don’t wish him to your door, and then he just shows up, because you wanted it hard enough. You don’t picture it, script it, and fall asleep to it, and have it just happen.

But I wasn’t imagining. He was really out there.

Since when did I get to live in the movie?

Only movies had beautiful lighting. Fantasy Parvani had freshly blown out hair and a sultry pout. Reality Parv had bleary eyes and the corduroy texture of the couch cushions imprinted the left side of her face.

Oh, well.

I opened the door. The smell of cold rushed in.

“Hey.” He looked lost and surprised, stuck between flight and fight. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and his eyebrows knit.


My stomach jumped into my chest and my brain shut off.  I changed my mind. It wasn’t anything like I’d rehearsed.

That part of me that was still pissed off reared up.

What do you say?

In my fantasy, he swept in with overwhelming romantic determination. I am not sure exactly what he said. Maybe something like, Oh, Parvani, I was a fool. Then he’d kiss me and say he couldn’t possibly survive without me.

My imagination was a little cheesy.

I opened the door a little wider, feeling the warm air rush out. “Wanna come in?”

He nodded and stepped through the thresh hold, eyes on his shoes. “Did I wake you up?” he asked.

“I nodded off watching TV.”

“You always do.”

I swung the door closed. Silence hit like a wave.  I could hear his breathing and that buzz of electricity you can’t ever escape in an apartment complex.

He looked around the living room, inspecting it, really. Nothing had changed since the last time we’d been in this room together, but now he seemed foreign, like a new chair that is too big and the wrong color. I’d stub my toe on him in the middle of the night.

“So, how are you?” I asked, crossing my arms across my chest.

Justin sat on the arm of the couch, and stared down at his shoes again. “I’m okay.”

He could have at least had the decency to say he’d been terrible. “Good.”

“This semester has been killer.”

I nodded. Engineering. This year involved tons of time in labs making things that probably wouldn’t work.

I uncrossed my arms and willed my shoulders into a more casual position. “So, what are you doing here?” I asked, trying to sound neutral and not surly or accusing.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I saw you earlier. Just… did some thinking.”


“About you. I thought I would see how you were.”

“I am watching bad television on a Friday night; that’s what I do now,” I said.

He looked up from his shoes. Puppy dog eyes. “That’s what you did then.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t doing it back then to avoid running into you.”

“Guess I ruined that.”

“It’s okay,” I shrugged. I breathed. I softened. My back relaxed. My arms went slack. The initial wave of hurt subsided.

“Where’s Riya?” he asked.

“She’s out with that weird girl with the big glasses. The scary lab friend?”

“The creepy one that laughed at all the wrong times?”

“Yup. I’m sure they’re out lighting things on fire, or something.”

He shook his head. “You’d think pyromania would be more entertaining.”

“I know, right? But you know it’s just unfunny chemistry jokes and people that refuse to speak English.”

“That night sucked.”

“Oh, my God, your eyebrow.”

“Yeah. I’m lucky I wasn’t blinded.”

He’d just singed the end of his left brow when someone lost control of a rag on fire. I remember checking him over in a very dirty bathroom. He’d said he loved me that night.

We sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment.

He slipped off his coat and tossed into the armchair, swung his long legs around and plopped down into the cushion on the couch. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. I watched him crack his knuckles, rearrange the ring his grandfather gave him for graduation. He had a man’s hands; they always seemed too big for him.

“I missed you.” His voice was low. He stopped fidgeting and looked up at me, earnest.

“I miss you, too,” I said.

He nodded. Sat back. “Come here?” he asked, patting the couch.

My heart skipped; I slung myself up off the door, stepped over his legs, and sat facing him. He smelled good, familiar. Leather coat and aftershave.

He took my hand, and looked down at it, running his thumb along my fingers. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Did I even want to know what he was sorry for?  “I am, too.”

“I try getting over it, over you. It’s not taking.”

“I know.”

“What are we going to do?”

I wanted him to say that he’d been wrong, and I wasn’t frigid or immature. Then I could tell him that he wasn’t a oversexed loser on the trawl for easy pussy.

I wanted to touch him; I wanted to climb into his lap. I wanted to end the nightmare.

I wanted to think it wasn’t just because I was lonely.

I laced my fingers into his. He looked at me, all big eyes and confused caution. I leaned in and kissed him.

It was a gentle sort of kiss. Virginal. I guess any kiss from me was virginal. His mouth was familiar, but I’d forgotten the important parts. The shape of his lips. The tickle of stubble. I pulled back. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I can’t believe you let me in the door.”

“Of course, I let you in the door.”

“I half-expected you to slam it in my face.”

“Why would I look through the peephole, see you, open it, and then slam it on you?”

He shrugged. “To tell me to fuck off, first?”

“I could have told you that at the store.”

He grinned. “You didn’t.”


I put my hand on his knee and leaned in.  “I hoped you’d come.”

“Yeah?” He raised an eyebrow.

I choked back a lump in my throat. “Yeah.”

“Don’t cry.” He frowned. “No more crying.”

“I’m not crying,” I protested.

“You’re about to.” He pushed a piece of hair out of my face, then pulled me closer, like I might get away. I buried my face in his neck and breathed him in; I shut my eyes tight.

My chest ached. I took a deep breath. I had to do something, or I was definitely going to cry.

I crawled on top of him.


I looked down at him. He wasn’t really the most beautiful boy on Earth, but he had delicious lips.  “What?”

He shook his head. Put his palms on my thighs.

“You are really here. On my couch.” I studied him, searching for any signs that this was not what I thought it was.

“This is surreal, right?”

“Maybe I’m dreaming.”


I nodded. He shifted slightly underneath me. I ran my finger over those lips.

Confusion flickered across his face. I shook my head.

I kissed him. Less virginally. I took his top lip, then the bottom one. Then I had his whole mouth. He tasted like mint. His shared heavy breath. His hands ran up my torso; I gripped the sleeve of his shirt, and broke off panting.

He kissed his way down to my throat, hitting a spot that made me gasp for air. Goose bumps broke out all over my legs and arms. My nipples hardened. I whimpered, but that just made him nibble. I wanted his shirt off. I wanted to feel his skin. My hands moved under his shirt and up his chest.

He was so warm. It’s like he always had a fever.

I ran my hands over his skin, my breath ragged. I tugged at his shirt.


I shook my head.

He didn’t ask anything else, but he took the shirt off. I kissed him again, threw myself at him—one hand in his hair, the other on his chest. He sat up, hands up my shirt, on my waist, moving up my ribs. He fiddled with my bra clasp.

I had his attention, now, on top of him.  Of course, he couldn’t work the hook and eye.

I reached back and undid it for him.

“The simplest of machines,” he muttered, slightly annoyed. Embarrassed.

I grinned down at him, pulled my shirt over my head, taking off the bra in the process, and tossed the mess behind the couch. His hands shot up to cup my breasts. Thumbs brushed over my nipples.

I leaned in to kiss him again. His hands dropped from my breasts to my waist, and the feel of his skin against mine overwhelmed me. He was just so warm.  He ran his hands up my back, and I gripped his arms. Arms are good. His are strong; mine aren’t really.

The bulge was back. His hard-ons had become such a point of contention.

(”We only go so far and no farther, and what’s the point, anymore?”)

Not anymore.

He adjusted his position on the couch, and I lifted up to accommodate him. Hovering above him, my nipples floated around his face, and his mouth pounced on the right one.

His hands might be warm, but his mouth was hot.

I sucked air, and my clit throbbed to life. “Oh, God.” He bit, and I know I made a noise.  I sank down; he unlatched. I slumped into him, arms draped on his shoulders, out of breath.

“Is she supposed to come home?”

“I don’t know,” I murmured. He fit.  We fit together. What were the odds? All that skin. I looked up and found his mouth. Kissing was suddenly purposeful in a way it hadn’t been before.

His hands were on my breasts again. He pinched gently, and my pussy tightened. I drowned in him.

My shoulders relaxed, and my writhing hips took on a life of their own.

He groaned and pushed me over gently onto my back on the couch.

He tilted his head to one side the way he always does and gazed. I wouldn’t use “gaze” for much, but this boy gazed down at my body. Was he looking at me? Or was it just a yay for boobs?

He was all smiles either way.

I had to grin back; it was infectious.

He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

“You seem to be doing alright.”

Worry flickered across his face, but it didn’t stop him from going to work. He ran a hand down my thigh. I closed my eyes.

His breath across my body. From left to right. His mouth attacked my nipple again, and then grazed my ribs. Little kisses.

It tickled, and I squirmed. My breath gave me away—hard and fast. He moved down across my tummy. I looked down at the top of his head.

He sucked on the jut of my hip bone; my pelvis shot up. He gripped my thigh, and then his mouth tracked back up, up, up to the breast again. One thumb ran a lazy circle around the softer skin of my areola. I moaned, and he pinched.

I grabbed his hand to stop him, and he held it, fingers entwined. He looked up, removing his mouth from my hip in the process. My whole body quivered, then relaxed.

“Bed?” he asked.


We scampered to my room.

I turned on the lamp, sat on my bed, and looked up at him. His pants needed go. I unbuttoned them quickly. It seemed like the sort of thing you should have to practice at, but I had an untapped talent for stripping a man of his pants.

I was glad I’d worn the good panties today.

He climbed into my bed, and sat in his underwear, a hand on his knee.  I could see the outline of Justin’s cock (there’s a word I don’t say aloud, either) through his boxers.

I crawled to him on all fours, feeling ridiculous but aiming for sexy.

He seemed to like it. That grin again. I pushed him back deeper into my pillows, then nibbled my way down his chest. He might end up seriously hairy when he’s older, but he’s not there yet.

Don’t think about back hair, right now.

I kissed a trail along his waistline and then pulled the boxers down. I heard him inhale.

I ran my thumb over the head, and he gasped again.

I looked up at him, but he’d closed his eyes.

Everyone said you had to be careful of the teeth. He moaned a little when I put the head into my mouth.

I pulled it out and gave it a look. It’s you and me, cock. I gave it my best effort. Teeth covered by lips.

He was up there, somewhere, all heavy breathing. I took it out again, and tugged at the boxers. He lifted up, and I pulled them off.

Now, I saw why so many girls stuck just giving head for such a long time. It’s non-threatening.

I felt so worldly, with a cock in my mouth, like it wasn’t the weirdest thing ever.

‘Cause it is kind of the weirdest thing ever.

I took a rest, his dick on my cheek, and looked up at him. The eyes were open now weren’t they?

I grinned at him.

“Come here,” he whispered.

I felt sort of like a puppy, the way I wriggled and pounced on him, giddy on the notion that I had a naked man in my very own bed, that I had him in my very own mouth. I was a newly initiated cock pioneer.

He rolled me over onto my back, and we pulled my pants off.

I lay down on my back and he leaned on one arm, inspected my face.

“Are you sure?” he asked. Echoes of old fights surfaced.

“Do you have a condom?” I knew I didn’t.


He’s psychic, too.

“Then, yes, I am sure.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

I turned toward him, on my side, and threw a leg over his. My hands roamed up the flesh of his back, then back down his arms.  His skin. All of his skin up against mine was enough to swoon over. My breasts rose up to maintain contact, and I loved this man’s arms, and I loved my limbs all entwined in his.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

I wasn’t.

I just smiled.

His hand wandered down between my breasts, down my tummy, and into my panties.

No man’s land.

He pulled me out of my panties, and then we were naked, this boy and I.

Naked, naked.

His hand roamed along my hip, and then between my legs. He explored, finding the wetness. I whimpered into his neck.

Oh, my God, I’m going to do this.

My hips bucked as he ran a finger over my clit.

I could barely breathe.

He did it again, and I gasped and clung to him.

His hand backed off, and he rested his palm on  my thigh.

I looked up at him.

“Hi,” I whispered.


He kissed my forehead. My breathing went shallow, and I waited. Waited for what?

“Show me,” he said.

I moved my own arm down, and found my own clit. “Here,” I whispered.

“Keep it there.” I complied, while he turned away and leaned over the edge of the bed. He grabbed his jeans, sat upright, and pulled a condom out of his pocket.  He put it on my nightstand. Still sitting, he looked down at me, my hand between my own legs. His hard-on bounced slightly and rested against his own leg.

“There?” He put his hand lightly on top of mine. I flicked a finger down and felt where the wetness started. I slid it up. He followed with a single finger. I gasped.


Everything was slick now. My breath went shallow as he played with me. My jaw clenched, and I gripped the sheets my mother bought me.

He’d only been with one other girl that I knew about.

He slowed down, and I relaxed a little. Then he abandoned my poor overwrought pussy to put on the condom.

I squirmed, my thighs rolling together.  My mouth open.

This was it.

I watched. He tossed the wrapper on the floor. Health class demonstrations flitted to mind. Condoms on bananas. Get the air out of the tip.

Real life is a lot more interesting than health class.

He climbed on top of me, hovering and between my legs.

I took a deep breath. I wasn’t quite sure what to do or where to put my hands. He groped for the right spot.

I grabbed his cock; he needed some guidance.

The head rested against the holiest of holies.

He pushed in. I breathed shallowly, like I might hear it, but there was nothing to hear. Shhhh.


He pushed more firmly. I felt the breach. I watched.

Invasive, but not unwanted.

Bigger than I’d imagined. Easier.

There was another person inside me. Justin inside me. I’d had that thing, (cock) (cock) (try again, use your words) cock in my mouth, but this was in… me. My body.

It was different.

I looked up at him; determination stiffened his jawline.

I loved him.

I don’t know why.

I touched his face. He took my hand held my arm down on the bed, and then we were fucking.

His mouth opened; his head ducked. I gripped a bicep with my free hand and looked down at his shoulders.

God, he was beautiful.

My body bloomed; my legs opened wider. He pushed farther in, and I let him.

I loved this man. Even if he was a horny asshole.

I moved my hand up from arm to his hair, and pulled him to me.  I moved with him, not letting that damned cock have a moment’s rest.

“Pussy like a vise.” I read that in some dirty book. It sounded so hot, and now I could do it to this man if I wanted.

I could have him if I wanted. I gripped him—tightening my internally.

He moaned. “Fuck, Parv.”

He lifted his whole upper body and looked at me. Pupils wide. Slight sweaty sheen.

We kept the same rhythm. I wanted the thing you read about; a woman overwhelmed. I wanted to come. I wanted to have more of him than I could manage. If I could just have him.

Please don’t leave.

I closed my eyes, and my back arched. He dug in.

We fucked.

I was wet; I could hear it, finally. The noise. The slight soft clapping of skin, a suction-wet sound.

Oh, my god. Oh, don’t let him stop.

I lost it. That sound did me in. I whined and rode him. I squealed, my nails ran up his back.

Don’t let him stop.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t, oh, God,” I gasped. “Don’t.”

“Jesus,” he muttered.

I’d missed him. I’d missed him so much and wished for this for such a long time, and now it was happening, and please, oh, please don’t stop. Stay in me. Stay with me. My hand flew down to my clit, and I could feel his cock moving into me, hot. Wet.

My center melted, my clit lacked boundaries. He fucked harder, and I took him all in. It was too much.

Why did I wait so long for this?

And, then, I felt that cold sensation overwhelming all of the heat. The peaking, it’s not hot anymore—it’s somewhere between, and you can’t hold on, so you let go. I crested. My cunt grasped on to him, pulsating. My hand whipped away, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, held him tight.

He moaned, pumped desperately, and collapsed on top of me, the weight of him felt good. My pussy still spasmed around him. My arms wrapped around his neck.

Please, please don’t leave me.

He nuzzled his head into my neck.

I kept him close.

You’ll never have a man more vulnerable as you’ll have him with his head on your tits, after he’s spent.

The thing was done.

I stared up at the ceiling. All that grief over this one act seemed useless in retrospect.

He started, rolled to his side, and his chin on my shoulder.

If you believe the general population, it is the last thing any post-coital dude wants.

But I wasn’t going to stop him.

He sighed and held on.

I looked over at him. “Was it worth it?”

“You?” He pulled me closer. “Yes.”

I nodded, my thighs twitched. “Good.”

He pulled the condom off. I watched, because well, this was happening to me, and not Susie No-VD from the public health video. He knotted it like a balloon, then got up and tossed it into the trash. He shut my bedroom door.

“Don’t leave me,” I said.

“What?” He looked over, confused.

“Tomorrow. Tonight.”

He frowned and searched my face. “I won’t.”

I fought to not tear up, and wrestled with the blankets. “Don’t.”

“Parv, I won’t.”

I nodded and held my hand to my mouth.

He climbed in and got under the covers.  “I’m not going anywhere.”


I snuggled to him. It felt good. He was warm. Why do boys run so much warmer than we do?

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. For everything. For taking so long to come back.”

“You’re here now,” I whispered. “Just don’t leave.”

“I won’t.”

I believed him.

I’d never get to sleep tonight with someone else in my bed.

But, it didn’t matter.

I’d get used to it.

He was back, and he loved me. I was pretty sure.


  1. Jim Sitlington
    Posted February 9, 2012 at 10:10 pm | Permalink

    “you’ll never have a man as vulnerable….” Don’t you know it!

    • Joan
      Posted February 10, 2012 at 9:05 am | Permalink

      Heh. Well, I’m glad to provide a little nugget of truth in there.

  2. Casual Commenter
    Posted February 11, 2012 at 4:44 pm | Permalink

    This was both hot and very sweet.

  3. iadr1
    Posted March 11, 2012 at 10:24 am | Permalink

    found the blog by a google search for BDSM bruise, and the CleanPoliteMoral pic came up. Glad I found this. I like the writing. And, Fear is an imperfect system for self-preservation. is quite a line. Might use it on someone soon. ;)

One Trackback

  • By in-the-quiet-house: a beautiful story by joan... - Joan Defers on February 22, 2012 at 8:50 pm

    [...] a beautiful story by joan defers about a young woman losing her virginity, which i may have more to say about eventually, but here’s this excerpt for now. [...]

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