Chapter Text
We had been friends since childhood, and once in our teens, we started dating. We went to the cinema (as both of us were quite the nerds) or to the pool, swapped records and CDs, held hands, kissed and, eventually cuddled up completely naked. We allowed our hands to roam, to explore, but kept things chaste. I touched Peter’s half-hard penis, but he didn’t like it. Peter fingered my private parts, but he was clumsy and his big hands were calloused and cold. He hurt me by rubbing the same spot for too long, and so we just stayed away from those things. We slept naked, we hugged, and we exchanged sweet kisses. Peter loved to nuzzle my neck, I loved his pouty lips. When he moved to New York after a terrible family scandal, we remained friends. I would go and see him, and he would introduce me as his ‘girlfriend.’ We kept our sleeping arrangements though I could see that there were a lot of girls and boys interested in him. I wasn’t sure about Peter, but I saw the excitement in his eyes. He was curious about these people, and I started to feel like I was standing in his way. He had come to the conclusion that he was asexual. A handsy hugger, yes. Generous with his sweet little pecks, yes. Comfortable with no clothes on, he was getting there. He had told me about being an extra in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and how he would be naked on stage. I had found that disturbing, but he had shrugged and had said that it wasn’t a big deal. I went to see the play and watched closely. It hadn’t been a big deal, and I overheard some hurtful remarks about the size of Peter’s penis. I never told him. We cuddled in front of the television, feasted on cheap take-out, and slept in each other’s arms. It was perfect, and I believed him when he called me beautiful and perfect. I would have loved to try sex. With him. I sometimes wondered if I should do it with someone else, but I felt I couldn’t do that to Peter. “Would you have sex with me?” I once asked, and he frowned and asked me if everything was alright. I told him that I felt unseen. I wanted to know what it felt like. And I wanted to do it with him. “Give me time,” he said, “I’m … working on it, alright?” I once again believed him. I knew that some of his friends knew that he was inexperienced, but no one really cared. And then he went and whored himself into his first television role. It was a slap to the face. I didn’t want to believe the rumours at first, wanted to talk to Peter, got his voicemail, but he never called back. Too busy filming, he texted. He also sent bizarre poetry he seemed to find funny. We never spoke about the rumours. Summer went by, as did autumn, and soon enough it was my birthday.
Peter came to see me. 22. I felt old, but I remembered the promise he had given me years before. We would lose our virginity together (well, some of us would, I thought with bitterness). I was dead set on not waking up the next day and still be a virgin. I bought nice underwear, candles, made a mixtape. Peter gave me an umbrella. I remember it only too well. We did the shopping for the big party, and when we got back to my room, Peter blushed at the set-up and said, flat-out, that he wasn’t in the mood. “Because I can’t offer you a television role,” the words were out so fast that it shocked me, too, and Peter huffed and said that that had been a low blow. “Is it true?” I asked, and he said yeah. But it had been no big deal and it had been over pretty fast. “You said … it would be me,” I said, “I waited for you!” He didn’t get my drift. He hadn’t enjoyed it. It had been transactional. “Six years, Peter. I waited for six years,” I clarified, and he just made a stupid face and said that that had been dumb of me. I knew that he wasn’t into sex. “I asked you. Nicely,” I said, “I begged you to fuck me, and you said you were working on it!” – “I still am!” Wow, I thought. He was working on it. I kicked him out then. He protested, pulled a little red box from his pocket and held it out on a shaking palm. I knew by then that he was a brilliant actor. He would make a fortune lying to other people. Just not me. Never again. “I don’t want to see you or speak to you ever again,” I told him, and he stared at me in absolute horror. His lips were trembling, and his eyes were filling with tears. He even lapsed into Spanish, but I didn’t want to hear any of it. I opened the door for him, held it as he passed with a heart-wrenching apology, and shut it firmly, thinking that that would be the last time I had crossed paths with Peter Balmaceda.