I often stayed the night at a friend’s house. I’d seen her mom and step-dad passed out drunk on more than one occasion. Her home was chaotic. She had a brother a few years older than us.

While I was visiting this particular day—as I stayed over fairly frequently—her parents weren’t home. It was summer, too hot to be outside. We found reprieve in the doldrums of a still, air conditioning house.

Her brother had a friend over of his own. Around the same age. Nondescript; nothing about him stands out in my memory beyond him being tall.

Her brother’s friend, we can call him Kyle.

Kyle suggested a game of hide and seek.

I thought it was odd—he was older, so why would he want to play such a kid game?

But my friend seemed excited, so I’d agreed.

Kyle suggested we play in teams. I was to be his teammate.

My friend and her brother hid first. Details are murky, just standard hide and seek stuff. Then it was time for Kyle and I to hide.

I’m competitive. I like winning.

I’m also small, which means my hide and seek options were much greater than his.

And still, when he suggested we hide under a comforter together on my friend’s parents’ bed, I agreed.

He was older. I was skeptical of the spot. But I was also afraid to say no, afraid of overreacting to the request.

So I complied.

I’m fairly certain it was a water bed of all things.

He climbed into the bed, but stayed near the edge. The comforter was hunter green. He held it up, inviting me in. Given his position, it meant I had to curl into him to not fall off the edge.

I hated how nervous I felt. I hated that it put me on edge when nothing was even happening. It was embarrassing. It made my stomach hurt.

But I could hear my friend counting down. Time was running out. I joined him.

We lied on our sides, facing the edge of the bed. He’d pulled the comforter up over our heads. It was hot. The comforter was pilly qnd scratchy. Polyester.

I wanted to tell him how obvious the spot was but he pulled me flush against him, my rear to his front.

It wasn’t unreasonable to want to make us appear smaller, I’d thought.

I tried to be as still as possible yet he kept his hand on me, on my hip, long fingers that kept me still.

I tried to make sure my breathing was even. I was afraid of it seeming like I thought he was doing something wrong—because he hadn’t done anything. If I acted like I thought he had, I would be giving away that I’d experienced it before. I was determined to keep my silence in regard to my dad. I was good at secrets.

So I laid still and silent, my head pillowed on his arm. I felt his breath, hot and damp, against my neck, my ear. He was so close.

He told me, “Stay still. I don’t want them to find us.”

I could feel the brush of his lips against my nape as he whispered.

Gently—if I hadn’t been hyperaware of his every move I may have missed it—he pushed his hips into mine. I told myself it didn’t mean anything. He was just getting comfortable. Adjusting.

I could feel my heart beating so strongly. It was hard to hear over its pounding. I hoped he didn’t notice. I was so afraid he’d know something was off about me.

His arm, the one I rested on, rotated, and he brought that hand down to my stomach.

I was wearing a loose tee shirt and spandex shorts.

His fingers skimmed the elastic at my waist.

The fingers that were splayed on my hips began to creep, finding their way beneath my shirt, tickling against my skin.

I felt him skim my ribs. I didn’t know how I was supposed to react so I tried to keep my breathing shallow, like this was all normal.

He’d begun to grind his hips against my butt in earnest.

And finally—I was fairly certain I wasn’t making it up now—I was pretty sure what he was doing wasn’t okay.

I froze. Pulse hammering so intensely it felt like I was being choked.

His fingers had worked themselves under the waist of my shorts, just barely, but enough for him to press me closer to him. I could feel his cock against my butt, and I knew he was hard.

I knew what that meant, at least.

I was so aware of him. Every small movement, every breath, attuned.

And then—I realized I didn’t feel disgust. I was worried, scared, maybe, but not repulsed.

The idea suddenly hit me, that I could be touched like that and not hate it.

The weight of the realization kept me stuck in place. It was a hefty thing to grapple with.

I didn’t know if I wanted him to continue but I also didn’t know if I wanted him to stop.

But where our skin met felt electric and buzzing. I wondered if I’d like it if he put his hands between my legs. I wondered if it would feel good, for once.

He was breathing hard, mouth pressed to my hair, my neck—not kissing, just open-mouthed, damp.

I felt the tension building up in me—the same tension that normally had me seeking out my stuffed animal to grind into—and I found myself hoping he’d push his hand lower, lower.

I could no longer control my breath. Some silly part of me was worried about how obvious my lungs working would be under the comforter.

And then the comforter was ripped off our bodies. My friend had found us, all triumphant smile until something about the what she saw gave her pause, smile slipping to something slackened.

I hated the expression. My cheeks burned hot.

I quickly stood up to go find something else to do. I saw her brother staring at Kyle and I didn’t know how to read the look. I didn’t like that I didn’t know what it meant. It didn’t look happy.

Before I could see what her brother might say she and I were out of the room.

I felt disappointed that I didn’t get to experience what else he might have done, how I might have liked it.

He’d stayed the night. He didn’t seek me out again. I’d stayed up later than my friend, hoping he’d come to the bunk bed I’d slept in, hoping he’d pull me under the covers, hidden and pressed along him. But he didn’t.