Diary of a Tart - June 2000

This series unfolds as a collection of diary entries--private glimpses into one woman's life, where memory, desire, and experience all blur together. While the format borrows from the feel of a real journal, the subsequent chapters won't follow a strict timeline. The subsequent chapters will jump around, dipping into different moments of life. Some young and impressionable, others more mature and unapologetically bold, each reflecting the mood, hunger, or heartache of who she was in that moment.

You'll find that each chapter should carry its own mood. Some are introspective. Others look back with longing or regret. And some, like this one, simply capture the moment unfiltered, and alive with sensation. Not at the stage of her life to draw lessons from the experiences, but simply to record them.

This isn't about documenting life as it was. It's about capturing how it felt--in the heat of it, or in the slow ache after. So let yourself embrace the voice, and allow a bit of artistic license. After all, the real aim here is to tell a story... wrapped in the intimacy of a diary. This series offers a private window into Lily's world--her thoughts, desires, missteps, and awakenings. What may seem like fleeting comments or throwaway details often hint at a much larger story unfolding just beyond her awareness. Moments she records in passing may carry weight she doesn't yet understand, leaving room for the reader to sense the tension beneath the surface.

Some of those hints may eventually take shape in spin-off stories told from other perspectives, in a more traditional narrative style. These won't center on Lily, but they might offer context--filling in the shadows of things she mentions without ever knowing the full truth. Or at least doesn't know yet.

Because that's part of the pleasure, really--seeing the world through her eyes, even when we suspect there's far more going on behind the scenes than she realizes.

June 14, 2000 10:57 PM

Dinner for my birthday tonight. Just the three of us, same as always. We went to the little Italian restaurant in town, because Mum wanted somewhere "a bit proper" and Dad will eat anything if there's garlic bread involved. I wasn't particularly fussed, but I'm glad we went because... well. He was there.

Scott.

As in Scott-from-school Scott. As in Scott-was-on-the-football-team-and-had-that-smile-that-made-girls-squeal Scott.

I nearly dropped my fork when I spotted him walking toward our table with a notepad and towel over his shoulder. He's working there now. Took me a second to believe it. He looked different in the black shirt and apron. His hair's longer, bit messy, but in a way that suits him unfairly well.

He looked right at me, paused, then smiled and said, "Happy birthday."

I swear my heart stopped for half a second. For a moment I was completely flummoxed and thought, Wait, how would he know that? Like maybe he remembered. As if he even knew when my birthday was in the first place. As if he knew who I was.

But then I saw the card Mum had propped up on the table. Bright pink envelope. Massive "Happy Birthday Lily" printed across the front in sparkly letters. Subtle, that. He must've seen it.

Still, I blushed like an idiot anyway.

Mum, of course, leaned across the table the moment he was gone grinning like a cat and said, "Well, someone's got a sharp eye. You've an admirer, Lil." Dad didn't say much, just looked Scott up and down like he was sizing him up and then muttered something about whether they still did the veal parm.

It's not like I ever knew Scott in school. He was the kind of boy people orbited around, always had a group, always knew what to say, teachers loved him even when he mucked about. And me? I was the new girl with the funny accent, that can't keep her slang straight, because I'm just off the plane from England when we moved here for Dad's job.

Starting high school in a new country? Brilliant timing dad. Not awkward at all.

Anyway, Scott was miles out of my league. Still is, I probably. I was just... average. Not invisible, but not memorable either. And yet, tonight he looked right at me, and smiled like he meant it. For a second I almost let myself believe he knew who I was.

I must've said something idiotic about the lasagna. Or nodded weirdly. Honestly, I blacked out a bit from sheer embarrassment.

Now I'm lying here like a complete muppet, thinking it over a hundred different ways. The way he smiled. The way he paused.

It was probably just good customer service. He probably says "happy birthday" to ten tables a night.

So imagine my surprise when he smiled at me, like really smiled, and said, "Hey... didn't we go to school together?"

Cue internal panic. I think I squeaked out something like "Yeah, I think so" before pretending to look at the menu like it had just revealed the secrets of the universe. He was charming, friendly, and confident of course. He had noticed my birthday card on the table and asked how my birthday was going and told me I "look different, in a good way." Which... okay, brain, that could mean anything, but tell that to the swarm of butterflies I suddenly had in my stomach. And the look my parents gave me couldn't have been more different. I got "Someone's got an admirer!" expressed as a good thing and a bad thing at the same time by looking at either of their faces. God just kill me. I hope he didn't notice them.

I couldn't help it. I kept wondering--was he just being nice? Or was he eyeing me up? That half-second pause when he first saw me? The way he asked if I was back in town permanently, or "just visiting"?

Probably nothing. It's always probably nothing. I mean he didn't even realize I never left town because I'm out of his orbit. He probably said the exact same line to table five ten minutes before us. I mean, why would Scott Harper be checking me out? I'm not exactly the kind of girl you remember after high school when you didn't even know me in high school.

Still... it seemed like he remembered something.

I didn't leave my number (obviously), but I did write "thanks for making my birthday extra nice" on the receipt. With a little smiley face. God, it's like I'm regressing in age!

Anyway. Maybe nothing comes of it. Probably won't. But for the first time in a long time, I felt... I wasn't off the radar. Like I wasn't just blending into the background.

And that? That was the best birthday gift I didn't know I needed.

June 15, 2000 8:17 AM

Didn't sleep. Not properly, anyway. Two, maybe three hours, but it was one of those nights where you keep flipping your pillow over, hoping your brain will shut up for five bloody minutes and it just won't.

All I could think about was him. Scott Harper. Still feels a bit mad writing that down.

It was just him, all night. His smile, the way he looked at me, like I was actually a person and not just some background extra. When he said "happy birthday," it was like the whole room went quiet for a second. I swear my brain's got it playing on loop like some embarrassing messed-up love song.

And I know I'm being ridiculous. He's not into girls like me. He never was. In school, it was always the confident ones, the ones who wore crop tops without second-guessing themselves, who laughed loudly and tossed their hair like they were in a shampoo advert. Girls who just knew how to be looked at. I was more... background noise. Not invisible, but hardly the kind of girl someone like Scott would clock twice.

But last night... ugh. It felt different. Even if I was just imagining the whole thing.

And then, of course, my subconscious decided to have a field day.

I had a dream. Not just a dream--one of those dreams. The kind where you wake up and you can't even look yourself in the mirror without going red.

We were somewhere by the water, a lake or maybe the seaside, hard to say, but everything was warm and soft, the sky all hazy pink and gold. He leaned in, tucked my hair behind my ear (I know, I sound like something out of a dodgy paperback), and then he kissed me. Slow, like he had nowhere else in the world to be.

And then it all went a bit sideways in the best way, mind. My heart was pounding so loud I thought it might burst out of my chest. It felt real. Like he was touching me. Like Scott Harper was going to take me like I imagine he did the prom queen back in school.

He had me up against the tree before I could even catch my breath. One second I was standing there being all flirty, the next his hands were on my waist, then my hips, then my thighs. And hang on a sec -- when did my shorts disappear? I know I had them on. My heart was thudding so hard I could feel it in my throat. It felt real. Like Scott bloody Harper was actually going to take me, right there, right up against the tree, like I was in one of those DVDs dad thought he'd cleverly stashed behind the tax files in his office closet. As if I hadn't found those ages ago.

Then he slid his leg between mine, nudging them apart, and Christ, I could feel everything. I could feel rough hair on his thigh rubbing up against the softest part of me. And the stiff material of his shorts rubbing against my bare skin, while the bark behind me scraped my arse like a hundred tiny fingernails dragging across me, and urging me on. Like even the tree couldn't get enough of it.

I was wet, so bloody wet, I just knew I was soaking the edges of my knickers. When he pushed a bit more, and his thigh found the crease between my legs, I gasped. All I could do was bury my face into his neck and whimper. "Oh fucking hell," I finally muttered, and gripped his arms to steady myself. "For fuck's sake, you really are something, aren't you? Bet you've done this loads, haven't you? Got a proper routine and everything." Even in my own dream I couldn't be the confident one and had to think of other girls. "This the spot where you bring all the girls from school, then?"

"No, this is just for my birthday girl," he said, and that was it. Sod subtlety. I was trying to climb him like he was the tree behind me. I'd tightened my arms around his neck like I was trying to pull myself up, leg hitching round his waist without even thinking. Gave him a clear enough signal. And he got it.

His hands moved from my hips round to me bum, lifting me off the ground. The lovely thing about dreams is they don't have to make sense. And dreams being what they are, we weren't by the tree anymore. We were in the kitchen at his work, and he was completely naked as the day he was born, while I was still in my birthday dress with no knickers, and my legs wrapped around his waist.

He propped me on the cold steel counter, where I imagine they prep food, holding my waist with one hand, while his other tried to bunch up my skirt and give him access to my snatch. I swear, even in my dream the cool metal sent a jolt straight through me. I was absolutely wet. I could see me dripping on his knob before it even reached me. While he frantically guided himself to me, I gripped my legs 'round his waist, let go of his neck, and desperately tried to pull my dress from my shoulders so I could offer him my tits.

God, even my subconscious is bloody scandalous. What does that say about me? What's wrong with me? And honestly, is it bad that just thinking about it gets me going?

I know I'm not exactly stacked, but I'm well proud of what I've got. And when his mouth found my nipple, I swear I nearly exploded. Dunno what it is -- just the right flick or suck on my nipples and I'm halfway to bloody heaven. And in my dream, he knew exactly how to do it. That was it. I was gone.

And then I woke up to find my left hand on my right tit and my right hand... absolutely soaked between my thighs. Brilliant. It was just a dream. A filthy, over the top, no chance in hell fantasy. The worst part? He probably doesn't even remember me. Only said happy birthday 'cause the card was right there on the table, plain as day. Then had the nerve to ask why I was "back in town," like I'd just popped over for the weekend, when I've never left. I've been here since year nine when Dad's job dragged us back from England. I still say "lift" half the time instead of "elevator" and people look at me like I've just crawled out of a telly.

There was no going back to sleep after that. Here I am, sat in bed with pillow creases on my face and a spot forming on my chin, acting like some tragic heroine in a teen drama. It's daft. I know it's daft. But for a few seconds, in that dream, I felt like someone he might actually want. I'm dreaming about a guy who probably hasn't thought about me since he clocked out last night.

I know it's dumb. I know I'm building this up in my head because real life is so much duller than daydreams. But God, it felt good, just for a second, to believe I could be someone a guy like him might want.

God, I wish I could switch my brain off for five minutes. Or switch me off, really.

Anyway. The pool party for my birthday is tomorrow. I just hope it doesn't turn into a disaster. I invited more people this year, probably too many, knowing me, and I'm already cringing at the idea of Mum saying something wildly inappropriate in front of everyone. Or worse, Dad trying to be funny. He's got that look lately, like he's got some dreadful dad joke locked and loaded. Or worse, try to scope out one of my mates like he's still twenty-five and not someone's dad in socks and sandals.

Please, universe, let me have one normal day. Just one.

June 17, 2000 2:04 PM

Right, I'll say it--I was wrong. The pool party wasn't a disaster. Actually... it sort of ruled.

The weather was perfect. It was warm, and sunny, and not a single cloud about. People actually came too. More than I expected. I was sure it'd be the usual few--me, Kara, Mia, the ones who've stuck around since school, but we had a proper crowd. Music playing, people swimming, snacks everywhere. It was... awesome. Like real fucking awesome fun.

There were a few boys looking half decent in their swim trunks. Not that I was ogling. Much. And maybe, just maybe, I swam a bit too close to Alex at one point. Totally by accident, of course. Couldn't help it after I caught him eyeing me across the pool like I was the bloody birthday cake.

And by some divine miracle, my parents actually left it alone.

They did the whole "We'll be upstairs if you need anything, love" routine, and, shockingly, they stuck to it. I mean, mostly. I caught Dad peeking out of the upstairs window at least three times. I want to believe he was checking no one was sneaking booze or trying to backflip off the pool shed, and not that he was trying to scope out one of my mates. I pretended I didn't notice, though I know Kara did. She gave me this knowing little smirk like, Hey babe, your dad's being weird again.

Still. They stayed out of the way, didn't make any dreadful jokes or play embarrassing home videos like they've tried prior. Small wins.

But here's the bit that's completely thrown me: Kara saw Scott yesterday. She was at the mall with her sister and passed by the food court, and apparently, he was there chatting with one of his mates. And, get this, she swears she heard him say my name.

My actual name. As in, he didn't just vaguely recognize me from school, he knew who I was.

She didn't catch the full bit, just something like, "Yeah, she was at the restaurant the other night--looked really different. In a good way."

In a good way. God, I don't even know what that means, but I've been replaying that sentence in my head like it's a scene from a film. Over and over.

I keep telling myself not to be daft about it. It was probably just a passing comment. Doesn't mean anything. But still... I haven't stopped smiling since Kara told me. It's stupid. Completely irrational. But it made my stomach flutter in that ridiculous way you think stops after a certain age. Apparently not.

Maybe I'm not imagining things after all. Maybe that look he gave me, the smile, the way he paused when he saw me, it wasn't just polite small talk. Maybe there is something.

I don't know what happens next. Maybe nothing. Probably nothing. But something's different, and I feel it, even if it's just in me.

Nineteen's off to a weird start. But I think I like it.

June 20, 2000 11:42 PM

Kara is the absolute worst. And by that I mean the best. And also the worst.

We were at hers this afternoon just hanging out and naturally, he came up again. I swear I didn't bring him up, she did!

I mentioned I sort of wanted to pop by the restaurant again sometime soon. Strictly for the pasta, obviously. Not because Scott might be there. (Okay, maybe a tiny bit because of that.)

And Kara, being Kara, gave me that look. The one where she knows she's about to make me do something daft, and said, "If he's there, you have to actually say something to him."

I laughed, thinking she was joking. Like, what would I even say? "Hi, remember me? I once nearly inhaled my birthday dinner while staring at you like a complete airhead."

But she was dead serious. She leaned in, raised her one eyebrow as she does, and went, "Nope. I'm daring you. Proper dare. You have to say something. One actual sentence. And it can't be about breadsticks."

So now it's official. A Dare with a capital D. She even made me pinky swear, the menace. Honestly, I should be cross with her, but part of me is a bit grateful. I've been dithering over this for days and at this point, I either do something or I keep going in mental circles until I combust.

And look, realistically, what's the worst that could happen? He's polite, says something bland, and walks off. I survive. Probably. Best case? Well. Let's not get carried away.

Anyway, I suppose now I've got no excuse. I'll have to go. For the pasta. Completely for the pasta.

And maybe to stop being such a coward.

June 27th, 2000 11:14 PM

Right, so it's been a week.

A full week since Kara dared me to talk to him. Seven whole days. Seven full revolutions of the Earth. A thousand opportunities I've found to make excuses. Because I'm not the sort of girl who does bold things with her hair swept back and her eyeliner perfect.

I haven't gone back. Not once.

At first it was small things. Wednesday I felt weirdly bloated and just couldn't bear the thought of running into him looking like I'd been inflated like a party balloon. Thursday none of my outfits felt right. Everything suddenly looked childish or try-hard or like I was trying to cosplay confidence I absolutely do not have. Friday and Saturday I figured it'd be too busy to even see him.

Sunday I nearly went. Honest. I actually got as far as the car park outside, sat there with the engine running and Britney Spears playing on the radio, trying to psych myself up. I'd even done my best to have my makeup perfect. And then I saw a group of people come out, laughing, probably not even that interesting, and convinced myself I looked too desperate and drove off again like the world's most tragic undercover agent. Mission aborted.

Monday I was sure I had a spot forming right on my chin. The kind that announces itself hours before it shows up, like a storm cloud.

And today? Today I had no excuse.

None. I even wanted to go. I spent the morning half-dreaming about what I'd say if I saw him again. Practised smiling in the mirror like some tragic Hallmark extra. Tried to find that line between "cool and effortless" and "not totally deranged."

Then I chickened out. Again.

I keep waiting for the perfect moment, like I'll somehow just know when it's time. But maybe there isn't one. Maybe you just have to make yourself do the thing even when your hair feels wrong and you're convinced everyone in the room can smell your anxiety.

God, it's pathetic. Kara's going to murder me. Or worse, drag me there herself and force me to speak in full sentences while she hides behind the potted ficus giggling.

But here's the part I don't want to admit out loud: I think I'm scared that if I go, and if he doesn't remember me, or worse, does remember me but just doesn't care, that'll be it. That little flicker of maybe, the one I've been nursing like a half-lit candle, will snuff out completely. And I don't know if I'm ready to let it go.

Which is ridiculous, isn't it? I've been on dates before. I've flirted, had snogs, even gotten my heart mildly bruised. I'm not some insipid little wallflower trembling at the sight of a boy. So why does this feel different? Why does my stomach do backflips every time I think about seeing him again?

It's not like I'm in school and writing his name in glitter pen on the back of my math notebook.

So what is this?

And why the hell am I letting it get to me?

June 28th, 2000 6:52 PM

I did it.

I actually bloody did it.

I finally went today. Walked in, ordered food like a normal, functioning human adult, and even managed not to turn around and bolt the second the door shut behind me.

Okay, technically I ordered takeout so I wouldn't have to sit there awkwardly pretending not to scan the place for him. But I still went in. I didn't chicken out. And that has to count for something.

And then-- He saw me.

I was sitting on that little bench by the door, trying to keep my hands from fidgeting, when I looked up and saw him at the counter, glancing my way. Oh God, he saw me look at him. A second later, he was walking toward me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then he said, "Hey, you were here last week, right? For your birthday?"

I nearly forgot how breathing worked.

He remembered. Not just vaguely. He knew exactly who I was. I told him yeah, I'd come in with my parents. He smiled and said he thought so, hard to forget a pretty girl on her birthday.

I think my brain short-circuited.

Not just because he remembered, but because he said it like it was obvious. Like it wasn't even up for debate. Like of course he'd noticed me, of course he thought I was pretty, and now he was just casually stating a fact the way someone might comment on the weather.

I think I managed some kind of smile. Maybe even a thank you? God, I hope it didn't sound like a croak.

I've replayed that moment at least a dozen times tonight, each time wondering how I didn't spontaneously combust on the spot. It was just one sentence, but it's been echoing in my head ever since.

"Pretty girl on her birthday."

What in the world am I meant to do with that? No wonder every girl at school practically melted when he talked. It's like the whole bloody universe just faded out around him.

I swear I was instantly soaked through. My knees were going to be weak trying to stand.

And then, just like that, he asked me if I'd want to go out sometime.

No awkward buildup. No fumbling around it. Just straight up: Would I want to go out sometime?

And I said yes. Somehow. Despite my pulse trying to beat its way out of my neck, I managed to say yes.

He asked if this weekend worked. I said it did, probably too quickly, but he grinned like that was exactly the response he expected.

So now it's real. I have a date. With Scott. This Saturday. With the boy I've been spinning myself into emotional spaghetti over for the past week.

Let Kara try to mock me now. I will float right out of my skin before she gets the chance.

June 29th, 2000 1:41 AM

I can't sleep.

I thought writing earlier might help, but it only made everything more vivid. Like the act of putting it into words somehow stitched it into my skin. I keep thinking: I did it. And not only did I do it, but he asked me out. I have a date. With him. With Scott.

It doesn't feel real yet. My body is still humming. It's like I've just stepped off a rollercoaster and haven't stopped moving even though the ride is technically over.

I keep going back to that one line-- "hard to forget a pretty girl on her birthday."

I keep reliving every second of it, each tiny detail suddenly monumentally important. The way he leaned on the counter when he spotted me. The way his voice dipped just slightly when he said birthday. The way his eyes did that crinkly thing when he smiled.

And then my brain takes it further. Like, what if he'd taken me into the loo right then? I'm not one of the girls you'd see him date at school, and I'd need to prove I'm worth him taking out. How I'd do anything to make him chuffed, to please him so he'd keep coming back for more.

I can't stop fantasising about pressing against the wall, kissing him hard, giving him everything he bloody wants. I'd run my hands over his chest, whispering how much I want to make him feel good. Or that I'd want him to take the lead and tell me what to do, because I'd be dead keen to do whatever makes him happy.

I'd pull up my top just enough so he can see I'm ready for him, and with no bra, he'd see how excited and tight my nipples are for him. I'd be dead eager, doing whatever he fancies, kissing him, touching him, whatever it takes to keep that hungry look in his eyes. I'd make sure he's satisfied, making him feel like he's in charge, that I'm here just to serve him.

And I'd want him to know I'd do anything to keep him coming back, to make him smile, to hear him moan, and to do whatever I can to keep him hooked on me. I'd be totally his, letting him take whatever he fancies, just so he never forgets how lush it is to have me there, eager and obedient, ready to do anything.

Honestly, I'd give him everything, just to keep him mine in that moment, just so he knows I'd do anything to please him. If he wanted to pin my face to the wall while he took me from behind, I'd just arch my back to give him access. Or if he were to set me up on the basin, I'd show him how flexible I am so he can spread me as far as he likes, or he can pinch my ankles and put them by my ear. Whatever he wants. If he wanted me on my knees on that dirty floor, so he can use my mouth, I'd happily show him that while I may be gagging for it, I've overcome my gag reflex ages ago.

I swear, I'd give him everything, just to keep him mine in that moment. He'd know I'd do anything to please him.

Funny, isn't it? Before my birthday, I barely gave Scott a second thought. Just another fit boy at school with nice arms and a golden grin. I never understood why all the girls went daft over him.

And now? I can't get him out of my head. as I've been frigging myself repeatedly tonight. My sheets are absolutely soiled, and I don't know how my fingers aren't just wrinkled nubs by this point. My body's got a mind of its own tonight and clearly, it's decided it wants him. I've got no business thinking the things I've been thinking. Not after one conversation, one cheeky compliment, but try telling that to my traitor of a brain.

Part of me wonders what he's really like. I mean, really like. If that easy confidence is just how he is, or if it comes from what he's packing in his pants? I imagine he's got to be pretty good with it by this point. I shouldn't even be going there, but the thoughts won't stop.

And the worst part? Kara's always teasing, calling us "the Tart and the Tramp," like we're some kind of tragic comedy duo. I roll my eyes and act like she's full of it, but deep down I know she's not wrong. Not really. I try to think of myself as proper, but I know I'm everything she says. At least she owns it. She struts through life like she invented the word bold.

Me? I blush at my own thoughts and hide behind my diary even though I am a tart, just one who hasn't quite figured out how to wear it without feeling like she's doing something wrong.

And maybe I don't actually mind that so much.

June 29th, 2000 9:38 PM

Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.

I was telling Kara about the date. Even she was squirming and trying to not be obvious about touching herself as we were talking. And of course he had to be within earshot. And my door open. Dad. Lurking in the hallway like he was roaming the corridors at work. I didn't even realise he was home until I heard him make some comment about "the waiter, really?" Like I'd just announced I was running off with a convicted felon.

He didn't even ask about him, or want to know who Scott is or what he's like. Just immediately launched into one of his lectures to Kara and I about how boys like that have no direction, how he'll still be living with his parents in ten years and waiting tables because he "lacks ambition." As if he knows a single bloody thing about Scott. Or about me, for that matter.

I wanted to scream. Or cry. I did both.

Who does he think he is, weighing in like that? He's never around. Always off working late, opening some branch, or flying somewhere "important." I've spent most of my life having dinner with Mum while he's talking to his bloody pager. And now suddenly he's got opinions about who I should and shouldn't date?

Just because he made it big doesn't mean the rest of us have to live life according to some five-year plan in a leather portfolio. Maybe Scott isn't some suit-clad prodigy with a corner office lined up, but he was kind, and funny, and he actually liked me. He remembered my birthday. He made me feel like I mattered. When's the last time Dad managed that? If it wasn't for the birthday card, he probably would've thought we had gone to dinner because mum didn't feel like making a proper meal.

God, I hate how much it got to me. I told Kara I didn't care, that he was being a dinosaur, but I do care. I shouldn't, but I do. Because no matter how hard I pretend it doesn't bother me, there's this stupid part of me that still wants him to be proud. Or happy for me. Or, I don't know, just present. Be around long enough to give me a hug.

He can't even find the time to hug me. Not really. Doesn't ask how I am unless it's about school or chores. We coexist under the same roof, like polite strangers at a hotel he's staying at. And maybe that's just how he is. Maybe some people don't know how to be warm. How does mum bear it.

But I wish he'd tried. Even a little. I think I needed that more than he ever realised.

Anyway. Kara says he's just being a protective dad, that all dads are rubbish when it comes to their daughters dating. But it doesn't feel like protectiveness. It feels like judgment from someone who's never taken the time to know me. I don't get why she always defends him. Her dad's not exactly a prize either, he's just around more, that's all.

Whatever. He can think what he likes. I'm going on that date tomorrow, and I'm going to have a bloody fantastic time, and if he had the faintest clue what I've got in mind for Scott, he'd absolutely lose it.

He doesn't get to decide what makes me happy.

June 30th, 2000 12:12 PM

I can't believe it's actually happening.

It's Friday. Date day. Scott's picking me up at seven and I've already changed outfits twice and it's only noon. Off to a stellar start.

I told Kara everything yesterday and she just stared at me, mouth hanging open like I'd grown a second head. Then she screamed. Actually screamed. Said something about me living in a teen rom-com and insisted I shave my legs "just in case." I told her I was already three steps ahead, full bloody wax and everything. She just cackled and called me something I can't remember exactly. Basically, she called me a right little minx.

Right. I already told you about talking to her yesterday.

I haven't even started on my hair yet, and I'm already buzzing. I keep pretending I'm chill, like this is no big deal, but then I catch myself smiling at nothing and sort of bouncing on the balls of my feet like a lunatic. At this rate I'll sweat off my mascara before he even knocks on the door.

He said it's a surprise where we're going. Which is both sweet and slightly maddening, because now I'm stuck trying to dress for every possible scenario. From a walk in the park to robbing a bank. (Kidding. Sort of.)

Honestly, he could take me to a car park and I'd still be over the moon. I just want to see him again. To talk. To maybe sit close. To maybe... kiss? Will he want to kiss me?

Okay. Deep breath. Time to make myself looking a proper smasher.

This is really, truly happening. I'm going on a date with Scott Harper. The Scott Harper. The one my brain decided to turn into a walking, talking teenage fantasy the moment he smiled at me.

And now he's coming to pick me tonight and I'm squealing in my head!

July 1st, 2000 7:54 AM

Just got home -- still in my bloody date clothes. My skirt's all creased, and my top smells like his cologne. Hair's flat, dirty knickers all twisted and not on straight in my rush to leave, and my mascara is halfway down my face. I look like what the American's call "the walk of shame" personified.

The date itself? Lovely. Sweet, even. He picked me up in what I think was his car -- too old to be his parents', considering where we live. I slipped out before mum could do anything mortifying. Dad wasn't home. Shocker. Scott walked me to the car and even opened the door. Said I looked like a proper vision. No, wait, "gorgeous." That's what he said. And the way he looked at me, it was like I'd stepped out of one of those posters boys keep on their bedroom walls -- I don't think anyone's ever made me feel that... womanly. Not girly, not cute. But like he was ready for a proper romp right then. I couldn't help feel that shameful throbbing already.

He didn't take me anywhere fancy. Thank God. Said he couldn't stand Italian on account of working with it every day. "Basically got spaghetti for blood." We ended up at this cute little diner pretty close to home. Red vinyl booths and jukebox and... Maybe it wasn't that cute, but a dive. But it didn't matter because I couldn't take my eyes off his smile. More specifically his mouth and what I wanted to do with it. In the end it didn't matter where he took me, because I was on a date with the boy I hadn't stopped thinking about, for what felt like ages. I barely touched my chips anyway. Didn't want to bloat, and nerves had me all twisted up. He asked a lot of questions about me. My accent, the words I use, why I say "mate" and not "friend". Said he'd never realised how pretty I was when we were in school. Asked why I hid it. I told him I didn't, he just never looked. I mean how does he expect me to answer that?

But he was lovely the whole time. Kept his eyes on me, even when I was talking rubbish. Laughed at my jokes. He kept brushing my foot or leg under the table with his now and then, like he couldn't help it. Every little thing made me melt. If I'd reach for something he would too like it was just an excuse to touch my hand, or more specifically me! I felt flutters every time.

We drove around after, windows down, music up until we pulled into a park and just sat there for a bit, talking. And then kissing! Laughing between snogs. It felt like something out of a film. If I had my way, it would've been the type of film I would've caught the belt for from dad. I didn't feel rushed or pushed, I wanted it. I was ready.

And then we went back to his. It was so close to the park, we were there before I even knew it. I never realised he lived so close to me.

When we got to the door, he just looked at me and said, "My parents aren't home." And I swear, something in my stomach flipped. That was the moment I knew. This wasn't just a bit of snogging on the sofa. Something was about to happen. And I was more than ready for it. I don't even remember how we got from the car to his room, it was hands and heat and him pulling me into him like he'd been thinking about it just as long as I had. His room was clean. Well, surface clean. Boy clean. We kissed for ages, all heat and hands and whispered bits in the dark. I wanted it. I really did. I let him undress me slowly. He was gentle, maybe too gentle. Sweet and thoughtful. But not... assertive. I kept waiting for him to take me. Really take me. But he was soft -- almost careful. Like I was something delicate. Which I'm not. I wanted to show him I wasn't just some girl from school he had to be nice to. I was his, if he wanted me.

I kept waiting for him to push me down and just take me, the way I'd imagined in all those late night daydreams. But instead, he kept touching me like we were... making love. I've had gentle, lovely sex before, but for some reason I thought he'd be the take-charge type. The kind who'd twist me however he fancied and leave me wrecked in the best way. I mean, there wasn't anything wrong with what he was doing, not at all. But I wanted to feel what some girls whisper about when a bloke grabs you like he owns you. I got soft lips kissing down my neck, when what I really wanted was urgent teeth nipping down at tits. I felt slow, careful caresses when what I needed was a proper grip.

I don't know why I just assumed he'd be rough. Maybe 'cos he's Scott bloody Harper -- the jock all the girls throw themselves at. Maybe 'cos he's bigger, stronger, and got more stamina than any of the other boys I've been with and looks like he could toss me about like a ragdoll. But instead, he took his time. He was soft and sweet, and for a moment, I let myself melt into it.

It's not like he was bad. Far from it. It was... nice. Like the fit boy I never thought I'd have a chance with actually adored me. Which, honestly, did my head in a bit. I wanted messy. I wanted a bit of rough. I wanted to feel used, in that way that makes your knees shake after. I'd imagined him pulling my hair, biting at my neck, flipping me over without asking. But instead, he was... tender.

And that threw me more than anything.

As we sat kissing, he had one hand tangled in my hair, but not tugging, just sort of stroking. The other slid down my thigh and just sat there giving it little squeezes. It was maddening. Lovely, but maddening. I kept shifting under him, trying to coax more, and hoping he'd get the bloody hint.

I even arched my hips up into him, trying to grind a bit before finally, his hands moved again -- everywhere except where I wanted them. After what seemed like ages of me squirming, he finally slipped his hand up under my top and brushed over my tit, over my bra. I nearly gasped when he started to get close to my nipple. But again, it was gentle and he stopped short. I swear I was seconds away from grabbing his hand and shoving it right where I needed it.

Still... it wasn't nothing. There was something about the way he looked at me, like he was properly chuffed I was there, letting him touch me. No one's ever looked at me quite like that before. Not even the ones who came back for seconds. The boy I let lose his virginity to me was close. But I reckon he'd have looked at my gran the same if she'd been doing what I was.

So I let myself enjoy it. Let him take his time. Maybe I'd built him up in my head to be this rough-handed, filthy-mouthed brute, when really... he was something else entirely. Maybe gentleness could be filthy too, if you let it linger long enough. Maybe he was doing this on purpose to wind me up.

Finally he started to lift my top off. Yes. Progress! I shot my arms up, dead eager, and didn't wait for him -- reached back and unclasped my bra myself. I wasn't going to hang about waiting, or worse, have him fumbling with those tiny bastard hooks.

He let out this low little noise, like I'd just done something unspeakably sexy without even trying. His eyes dropped to my chest, and bloody hell, the way he looked at me... His smile in that dim light, and the sound of his voice telling me how beautiful they were, reminded me exactly why I was out with him in the first place. I wasn't just a girl with her tits out, I was the girl. The only one that existed right then. His hands came up, finally, and he cupped both tits like he was testing their weight. And then, thank God, his thumbs brushed over my nipples.

I swear I felt it straight between my legs. My knickers were going to have to be peeled off. I suddenly felt mortified. What if he thought it was too much?

He didn't go straight in with his mouth, though. No, he was slow. He looked up at me, checking. And I could've screamed. He was so bloody close. I gave the tiniest nod, biting my lip, and he finally leaned in and wrapped his lips around one nipple, fingers closing 'round the other. And I was gone.

My head dropped back against the pillow, and my legs parted just a bit without me even thinking. I was so ready. So far gone. I could feel my knickers clinging to me, all sticky and twisted, and if he didn't do something soon, I was going to bloody explode.

He switched sides, giving my other breast the same treatment with the same soft touch. I threaded my fingers through his hair and gave it a little tug, trying to urge him lower. I needed more. If he didn't put something between my legs soon, I was going to howl.

When he started to pull away, I was ready to curse him, until I felt his hands grip the waistband of my skirt and tug it down. I could feel my pants going with it.

It wasn't graceful. I had to lift my bum a bit to help, and the fabric caught round my knees before he finally got it past my ankles. But then I was bare. Completely bare under him, just wearing my necklace and whatever makeup was left after all the snogging. I feel like I should've felt shy to have Scott looking at me, 'cos what if I didn't measure up to what he was used to, or what if he thought how wet I was, was gross, but I wasn't even a bit. Not with the way he was staring.

"Holy shit," he breathed, and I felt my whole body pulse at the sound of it. Like the sight of me had knocked the wind out of him. He ran his hands up my thighs -- proper hands, not boy ones -- and they didn't shake or hesitate, sliding straight to my centre.

He paused at the top of my thighs, thumbs brushing my slick folds where I was absolutely soaked. My hips bucked on their own.

"Is this all for me?" he asked with a low cock voice, like he already knew the answer.

It's obvious, innit? I thought to myself. All I could do was give a little nod.

That got a grin out of him. Then, finally, he started undressing. He peeled off his shirt, and tossed it behind him. I watched breathless, as he unbuckled his belt and slid his jeans down, the bare skin beneath making my mouth go dry. He was "going commando" just like the boys at school would say.

He was bigger than I expected. Not huge, but definitely not average. Guess his confidence really did come from what he's packing down there. A knob like that could properly wreck a girl.

He didn't waste a bloody second. He climbed up the bed and slid right between my legs and eased himself in, quick but gentle. I was soaked, no way he was struggling, not even with his size. His thrusts were quick, but they felt held back, like he was keeping himself in check. He kept leaning in to kiss me or rest his face close, whispering sweet nothings. Once again, I felt like he was being proper delicate with me.

Then it was over before I'd even settled into his rhythm. I thought what the fuck?! Suddenly he got all jerky, pulled out, and just ground against me until he came, spilling between us and pooling at the top of my mound.

I looked down. It happened. It was over faster than I expected. He was sweet about it, and kissed my neck and called me "gorgeous girl" and asked if I was okay. And I was. But also... I wasn't. It wasn't bad. It just wasn't... good. Not really. The few moments I had felt good, just short.

It was like my body was just feeling him start, and suddenly he was done. He kissed my shoulder after, said I was amazing, then rolled over and sighed like he'd just crossed a finish line after a track event. I didn't finish. Not even close. When he kissed my shoulder it's like he thought it was the most romantic thing in the world. I laid there, staring at the ceiling, wondering why I didn't feel... more.

After all the build-up, I decided there was no way I was letting the night end like that. At least if I did it myself, I'd get a taste of what I wanted. I glanced over at him lying there, and he turned his head with a smile that said I should be satisfied.

I rolled onto my side, grabbed his knob, and gave it a proper stroke. For fuck's sake, even if he was done, it wasn't. Still had a decent half erection going. When he moaned, I leaned down, took him in my mouth, and worked him back up to full hardness. Proper blowjob, no mucking about. I worked him from tip to base, stroked him, fiddled with his balls, and kept my eyes glued to his, while showing him exactly what I could do. I knew I was finally getting to him when his hands got all tangled in my hair again. He didn't push or grab, just rested there, and I buried my nose in his belly, where the cum from his orgasm was still sticky in his hair. I played it like he was making me take him proper until I had to come up for air feeling the strings of his earlier orgasm cling to my nose before finally breaking.

Finally it was my turn.

I freed him from my mouth with a few last kisses and strokes, even lapping at the bits still stuck in his hair. Now it was my turn to be on top, and I made those few feet the sexiest crawl I could manage in such a tight space.

When I finally got there, I didn't hang about. I reached down for a few quick strokes before settling him right where I was burning for him. His hands came to rest on my thighs, and as I started to lower myself, his grip tightened like he was trying not to lose it already. And bloody hell, he felt delicious inside me. He really did have an exquisite cock. Now I had it fully inside, I could feel just how much it actually filled me. And now that I was getting a proper feel of it, I gave a few slow grinds just to stir things up and adjust. I needed to steady myself before I properly lost it.

As I started to rock on him, I grabbed his hands and put them on my tits, told him to play with my nipples. He didn't argue. I could feel him pinching and rolling them, and the only thing that would've made it better is if I hadn't had to bloody tell him in the first place.

My pace was picking up now and I couldn't stop the moans and the streams of oh fuck, or oh Jesus, or fuck yes from coming out of my mouth. I reached between my legs to give myself a quick frig, just enough to tip me over. I didn't need this to drag out. I just wanted to feel even half as satisfied as he'd looked after getting his. When my fingers pressed to my mound, I felt his earlier cum slick in my palm. It's honestly one of the hottest feelings. The way my smooth pussy feels all slippery with a boys cum... My hand just glided over it like it was oiled glass.

I finally looked up at Scott, and his eyes were glued to me like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Had no girl ever done this with him? Did they all just let him get his and roll over? The thought that I might be the only one who'd ridden him like a proper little tart nearly sent me.

I leaned forward a bit, bracing my hands on his chest as I rode him, slow at first, then picking up the pace. His hands stayed busy, cupping and squeezing, with his fingers brushing over my nipples. When he pinched them, he ended up tugging them every time I pushed back. I don't think me meant to, but I bloody loved it. He let out this low groan, and I felt it deep in my belly. God, I was close.

"Jesus, Lily," he breathed, and that was it -- the sound of my name in that voice, with me all wrapped round him like that, tipped me right over the edge.

The moment he said my name like that, I broke. It started with this tight little flutter deep in my belly, and then the whole thing just took me. My thighs clamped round his hips, and my back arched all on its own, head thrown back with ragged gasps and these daft little squeaks I couldn't hold in. Honestly, my voice goes so bloody high when I cum, I'm shocked it's not just dogs that can hear me.

I bit my lip, trying not to make a scene, but it didn't stop the noises slipping out. And that must've done it for him, 'cos just as I was trying to catch my breath and stop the shaking, I felt his grip tighten on my hips, like he couldn't take it anymore. He yanked me down hard while his own hips bucked up, and I swear I felt him get even deeper. Felt myself stretch just a bit more, like he'd swelled right at the finish. Then I felt him wash through me.

I don't even know how to describe the feeling of something so warm suddenly flooding inside me, other than proper satisfying. It's more than that though, it's like I'd earned something, and finally got my reward.

Then it was my turn to climb off and roll over. He just lay there quiet, probably still trying to catch his breath? I still had his seed that was going sticky on my smooth mound and belly from earlier, on my hand from it running through it and then onto his chest. Our sweat probably being the only thing from keeping it drying at this point. And now I could feel him starting to trickle out of me too.

Muttering a sorry, I fumbled off the side of the bed for a minute before coming back with my knickers. Didn't really know what else to use, but I felt a bit guilty making a mess and not wanting to ruin his sheets, and assuming his mum washes them. Taking care of him first, I wiped at his chest with a sheepish 'didn't mean to mess you up' smile, before finally down to his slowly deflating knob. I wiped as best I could, but started feeling like I was just smearing it around. I offered to grab a wet washcloth if he told me where the loo was, but he just said it was okay. He sounded... out of it, I dunno.

Finally I tried to wipe myself but couldn't find a dry spot on my soiled knickers, so I just put them on to stop any more leaks on his sheets. Then we just lay there. He fell asleep quick. I didn't really know what to do, still buzzing from my own orgasm, so I just stayed put until I reckon everything from the day and night finally caught up, and I drifted off too.

Then came the worst bit. I had to sneak out like a thief at sunrise with the remains of last night dried between my legs. I just couldn't face him in the morning after how I acted during round two, compared to how sweet he treated me on the first go.

I didn't know if his parents were home. I know he said they weren't last night, but they could've come home, or they could've been gone for the weekend. But as I crept down the stairs with my shoes in hand trying to be quiet as a church mouse, I caught sight of his mum. She was just coming up the stairs. Like the timing couldn't have been more perfectly awful. She was wearing her housecoat, holding a tea, and a look that went from shock to see me, to one that nearly turned me to dust. She didn't say anything, just stared like she could hear all of last night through the walls.

Like she'd already decided what I was.

And the worst part? I didn't even fight it. I felt it too. That shame, crawling across my skin like a rash. After all, I was the girl sneaking out of a house I'd never been in before last night at the crack of dawn after fumbling for satisfaction in some boy's bed. I was the tart. The slag. The exact girl Kara jokes about me being -- except today, it didn't feel like a joke.

All I could do was put my head down and try to rush past her with a mumbled "Sorry. Excuse me." I couldn't even do that. She stepped up the first steps and blocked me. When I looked at her she caught me with a wicked slap right across my jaw and accused me of being a right trollop. Said something like she wouldn't have a whore like me in her house with her baby. I'm not really sure. I was so humiliated. Knowing she's right made it worse... The horror is that I was also instantly more aroused than I had been all night. Pushing past I ran out of the house with tears from the stinging in my jaw, the feeling that my lip may be swelling and my knickers feeling sodden from him last night now sticky again from my fresh wet now.

But before I even made it to the door, I heard her storming into Scott's room, screeching about having someone like me under her roof -- said she's heard the type of girl I am.

What does that even mean?

Do I have a reputation now? Not just some cheeky joke between Kara and me -- but an actual thing people say? Are boys out there having a laugh, swapping stories, tossing my name around like I'm some guaranteed bit of fun?

Is that why Scott asked me out? Not because he liked me, not because I was special, but because he'd heard I was easy?

God. What if that's all this was?

I need to talk to Kara. She'll shriek, call me a tart and a maniac, ask for a blow-by-blow recap. She's going to get every detail. She always does. Because she's the only one I can be completely honest with about this kind of thing. She'll want to know if he went down on me (he didn't), if he used protection (he didn't), if I finished (I didn't), and whether I'd do it again (I don't know, and I don't know why). Say something filthy like, "You should've turned him over and showed him how it's done." (I did) and then I'll give her those details.

Maybe I'll just get Kara to finish what he couldn't. Wouldn't be the first time her mouth did more for me than anything Scott managed. She had definitely had some new tricks after my pool party....