My reflection stares back at me, a look of pure disgust in the mirror.
I've tried on over five shirts, seven sweaters, two jackets, three pairs of pants, and the only thing I've decided on is my slimming black jeans. The rest I leave undecided because I'm terrible at making decisions, especially when half of the tops in my closet wear like a loose dress on me because of how thin I've become these past few years.
Worried about how much time I have left, I glance at my phone, which is playing Lady Gaga on shuffle, and the time blinks up at me – 2:55 PM – mocking me. "Yoü and I," is playing, and irony hits me like a train. If I didn't like him so much, then I wouldn't be stressing over what I'm going to wear. Yet I'm desperate to impress Gray's parents and show them that I can be a good boyfriend for him.
Perhaps there's another reason why I'm so nervous about the clothes I'm going to wear. It's a way to distract myself from the thought that I might be spending most of the night without them on.
When Gray asked me if I wanted to sleep over, a few thoughts ran through my head, and other parts of my body. It scared me, turning my stomach inside out. I've always viewed sex as a taboo subject, pushing it to the back of my mind. Not that I've been completely oblivious to sex my whole life. I knew I was gay before my mom died, and I know how sex works. I'm not sheltered or some shit like that. But I'm also not one of those kids that ever considered sex a topic of conversation. My mom, on the other hand, was unapologetically blasé about sex. We had the talk shortly before the accident. It was very comprehensive – covering every method of sex and position, as well as every STD and method of contraception. She insisted that our society intentionally perverted sex to dissuade people from having it. "Americans put violence and bloodshed on a pedestal but stick their noses up when a girl gets her period, shaming her into believing that her body is the true weapon of society." Even though she was an American herself, my mom retained much of the sophisticated superiority she inherited from living in France. My father promised her we would move to Paris again someday, once we had enough money to afford the risk of moving to a different country. If it hadn't been for my father, I doubt my mom would have ever returned to the United States. Yet she put love over her devotion to the City of Lights and I became her new place of solitude. "As long as I'm with you, I'm home," she would say. I was more than her latest inspiration. I was her home.
Despite my objection to her frank and frequent discussions of sex, it's probably one of the things I miss about her the most. She was the most honest person I knew. I could ask her anything and she would tell me the truth. My father sometimes feared that I was too knowledgeable in the ways of the world as a young child, but my mom refused to tell me lies for the sake of discretion. "He'll find out soon enough, anyway," she would say. If she was still here, I could count on her to give me an honest answer to the question I have right now.
"Am I ready?"
I promised her I would save myself for the right person. It wasn't a promise I made lightly. I truly want to wait for the right person. Maybe some of my mom's spiritual, down to Earth teachings of the energy and emotion that's transferred between sexual partners rubbed off on me. Gray and I've already formed such an unbreakable bond. I imagine sex would only make our connection stronger. Except, is now the right time for me?
Even though I wish she was here to tell me herself. I know what my mom would say:
"Only you can answer that question."
The song ends and I check the time. It reads 2:58 PM, and I panic, realizing I'm half-undressed and Gray's supposed to pick me up in two minutes. Hastily, I grab a pink long sleeve tee that hugs my thin figure and makes me look less frail than I actually am. It pairs well enough with my jeans, and will have to do. I reach down to tie my Converse and speak a silent prayer, begging that I make a positive impression at dinner tonight.
YOU ARE READING
Bathe in Color
RomanceParis Wills is a dreamer. His father always said he got it from his mom, an artist who was unlike any other. Her virtue was painting, and Paris' is poetry. No matter where he is, Paris finds inspiration for his poems. In the summer after his sophom...
