Winter 02


The Girl the Boy and Calvin Klein




Earlier that evening, standing in front of her dorm room mirror, the Girl had prepared for his arrival, for him to pick her up. Their professor's dinner party, which they would attend together, felt incidental to her. The lily of the valley oil that the Girl dabbed behind her ears and smeared on her wrists, even dotted playfully between her breasts, was for him. The strawberry-kiwi gloss that she wiped slowly on her lips, careful to stay in the lines, was for him. The fact that she had, an hour earlier in the shower, shaved her legs and her armpits using a special shaving cream made for girls, a pink gel that turned white and fluffy at the touch, that made her newly smooth, hairless legs smell of baby powder, of infant, all of this was for him, especially the new black cotton Calvin Klein bra and underwear set she now wore, on which she had indulgently splurged a week before.

But after the dinner party, straddled across his lap in the dark, in the air thick with cigarette smoke, on the front bench seat of his car, parked in the lot across from the professor's house, the Boy quickly, surprisingly, yanked the black cotton Calvin Klein bra up over her breasts, causing them to fall, to land back on her chest with a slightly jarring slap of her own skin against her own skin, and, before she understood fully what was happening, the Boy pulled the crotch of the black cotton Calvin Klein underwear to one side and, as if in one motion, placed the tip of his penis, which she had not realized was already exposed, inside of her vagina, and she thought, with a feeling that was somewhat like amusement, somewhat like confusion, and possibly somewhat like embarrassment, that the Boy had not noticed the new fresh black cotton Calvin Klein bra and underwear at all, that now he was inside her body and they were having sex, technically, that she had not expected sex so quickly, and this thought came quickly then, along with a feeling that was somewhat like amusement but somewhat like confusion, embarrassment, and somewhere, secretly, like sadness.


Julianna Spallholz lives in upstate New York.