Twelve Hundred Days

“I’m old enough to be your mum.”
He narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t know where to start with how wrong that sentence is.”

“You know what I mean.” I mumbled. “It’s just ridiculous.”
“I am not the ridiculous one here, Joy. I am not the one who understands neither basic maths nor human reproduction.”

He was still holding me – his hands on my waist as we stood in the corner of the house party. Why was I even at a house party? It was already past eleven and my feet hurt.

I tried a different tack.

“We belong to different decades.”
“Because I don’t remember the golden years of The Big Breakfast and you no longer get carded buying rosé in Asda?”

His right hand inched up my waist and brushed the spot where the slightest touch made me whimper.

“Kiss me.” He said.

His thumb stroked the bare skin of my back, making me shiver into the sticky, youthful heat of the party. Artists I couldn’t name moaned words I couldn’t hear through the smoke.

“You’re too young.” I whispered but the last word got swallowed up in his moist pink lips and his body overpowering my anxiety. I wrapped my arms around his neck, unwilling to let him go now I had him, regardless of what I’d said or how stupid he thought I was. He backed me up against the noticeboard in the narrow hallway; the crunch of ancient notes and fire drill instructions against my back made us both start. He broke away and reflexively I ran my arm over my damp, swollen mouth.

“Old enough to be my what?” He grinned, taking my hand and leading me upstairs.

On the bed he touched me more. He cupped my breasts through the slippery fabric of my dress, drawing my hand down to his crotch where the taut denim of his skinny jeans strained over his cock, pulsing evenly against his thigh.

“Twelve hundred days.” He whispered as his hands moved lower, and lifted the hem of my skirt.

“What’s a thousand days, between friends?” His voice was in the crook of my neck, his thumb and forefinger peeled my damp knickers away matter of factly. I was fumbling with the buttons on his flies before I knew what I was doing. He wasn’t wearing underwear – the flesh was warm and smooth and sprang up for me as we pushed our clothes away. Our movements were fluid; my fingers in his hair as he slipped the condom from his wallet and watched me roll it down his erection. His hips firm and rhythmic as he bore down on me with his fingers pressing white prints into the weight of my thigh. I was laughing. Laughing as he brushed a tendril of hair from my chest and kissed the fat beneath. Laughing as he growled and fucked me harder. He laughed too, giggling with our foreheads touching. Sniggering as we sped up, and I held his face in my hands – his gorgeous, five years younger face – and listened to the noise bursting from the floors below. The songs I couldn’t name, by the artists I didn’t recognise.

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