Reinaldo was special because he was from the same place she was from, and so few people were. The city of Chelsea was filled with people from the City of Chelsea, but Chelsea is where they stayed. Michelle had not encountered any since running away, and now here was this boy. His accent was Latin and New England at the same time. It dizzied her, made her feel like she’d been drinking the tampon punch.
Michelle had only invited Reinaldo into the bathroom for a kiss, but soon they were naked on the dirty floor, having sex like frenzied animals. This is so excellent! Michelle thought. Reinaldo the breakdancer was smacking her ass, grabbing her hair and pulling her face down to his junk, which was surprisingly pretty. I’m so not grossed out by guys anymore, she dreamt wonderingly, taking it into her mouth. Nothing about Reinaldo’s body bothered her. He was petite, his chest hairless, his muscles like the caramel ropes of a candy bar. She couldn’t wait to text message all her friends and tell them how she’d gotten it on with a twenty-two year old breakdancer called Fly. He pumped his hand into her like a girl, Michelle having rejected him when he asked if he could hit it raw. For serious? Michelle marveled. Boys really tried to have sex without condoms? Outside, women were banging on the bathroom door. Bleed through your tampons, bitches, see if I care, Michelle thought. Under the ruckus of their impatience was Reinaldo, calling her girl. As in, c’mon, girl. C’mon, girl. She felt like a gorgeous horse—enormous, magnificent, potentially unbroken. Reinaldo wanted to be slapped. Harder, he said, but Michelle couldn’t get the angle. She hit him in his face instead, but that was too much. Biting on the shoulder he liked—leave a mark. He was trying to make his ex-girlfriend jealous. Last week he had found naked pictures on her cell phone, she’d been texting with some guy. They lived together, neither knew what to do, who should move out. He would come home tonight with his shoulder chewed off. His penis, too. He had to move Michelle’s mouth from his crotch, she was too rough. Michelle turned red and felt sick in her stomach—she gave bad head! It was because she was a lesbian, used to sucking silicone cock for show, just getting crazy with it, gnawing at it, gazing up at her girlfriend with the wide-eyed stare of a porno Keane painting. Reinaldo’s cock was attached to his body forever, and she was hurting it. I’m so sorry, she said, I’m usually a lesbian. This did the double trick of honestly explaining her sexual deficiency and letting Reinaldo think he was King Casanova of the known universe, scoring with a lesbian, who cares if she can’t suck cock, she was a lesbian, that is so hot, he couldn’t wait to text message all his friends and tell them how he’d gotten it on with a thirty-seven year old lesbian in the gallery bathroom. Thirty-seven? Dreaming, Michelle gasped in her sleep. Is that how old I am? That was really old. Michelle was faintly concerned about her white leggings and plastic stilettos and fucking young boys in bathrooms at the age of thirty-seven. What had happened to her girlfriend? She peered closely and saw marionette lines parenthesizing her mouth, which was clamped around her wrist in an effort not to yelp as Reinaldo tunneled into her. Her entire face was furrowed with sex, but the lines between her eyebrows would remain.
