He felt suddenly shy: all stomach and lungs and bladder. As he lost his nerve, she became determined. He could not tell if she was moved by sexual desire or by a desire to get the job done. It seemed to him it was the latter. He knew her well and this was her homework face. She pulled him towards the bed and then pulled him on top of her. In their kissing she always made the first move but this time she lay back, still in charge, but somehow instructing him with her posture to take the lead. He was the man, he realized. He knew men were supposed to take the active role, but he felt weak and small and childish. He managed to get on top of his old friend and put his dick where he was supposed to put it. He pushed and was met with more resistance than he expected. Anabel’s face still expressed determination, but beneath the determination Lorenzo saw fear and pain. He pushed again and she actually cried out, but not in pleasure. He wanted to ask her if he was hurting her or if she would like him to stop but he knew that if he did those things he would really lose his nerve and his dick would go all limp along with the rest of his body.
He reminded himself that sex was supposed to be the best thing in the world. There were tears in Anabel’s eyes. He reminded himself that this was what Anabel wanted. He pushed again. Something inside her snapped. He found himself further inside her than he expected, which is strange because he had assumed he had been fully in previously. He was so shocked he pulled out, and she screamed again but said through tears and a clenched jaw, “No, no, keep going, I like it.”
Lorenzo didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. There was blood on the sheets. He had heard some kind of vague rumor about blood, though he had not anticipated quite as much. He looked down and saw blood on the condom hanging from his now-limp dick. He pulled it off in horror and threw it onto the bed. He felt certain what he had done was illegal. His friend was bleeding and crying and it was his fault. He had just assaulted her, surely. If that was not assault, then what was? Lorenzo made his excuses and rushed to the bathroom, shaking. He was desperate not to cause offense and was terrified that his response would have done so. Teenage girls always thought everything was their fault.
When Anabel came to find him she was dressed. She brought his clothes too, folded neatly. He had showered in her bathroom and wrapped himself in a fresh towel. He changed back into his clothes. They went downstairs to drink orange squash. Anabel ended up comforting Lorenzo rather than the other way around, which seemed absurd to Lorenzo even at the time.
There was no need to break up with her. When they returned to school on Monday it was clear that their relationship was over. A couple of months afterwards Anabel started going out with a boy from a different school whom she met at an orchestra club. Lorenzo was fairly sure they started having full sex almost immediately. He and Anabel remained friends but did not speak of the encounter again, although it crystallized Lorenzo’s own understanding of desire. He found Anabel and many other women physically appealing. He still does. He likes the way they look and feel, but desire is not about whether a body is drawn in curved or straight lines, but about the exchange of power. With Anabel he was expected to subjugate. This seemed to be what she wanted or thought she wanted, or a mode into which they both couldn’t help but slip.
Eddie Kettering arrives late to the pub and doesn’t have time to get a drink before they head off. The barmaid glares at him as he sits down next to Lorenzo without buying anything, and when Lorenzo says goodbye to her on the way out she doesn’t look up.
Outside, Lorenzo raises his hood against the cold. It is the shortest day of the year and though early afternoon, the bare hedgerows and fence posts on the horizon are tempting gray night. On the walk, they chat about their Christmas plans, and Christmases they remember from childhood. When they arrive at the studio, they go to their separate dressing rooms. Lorenzo sits in front of a mirror while a makeup artist smears pastes across his cheeks and eyelids. Then he dresses in gaudy silk robes and goes out onto set where an assistant director is explaining the purpose of the scene.
“Basically this is the point at which our hero—that’s you, Eddie—starts to realize the battalion he’s been placed with is full of absolute bastards. They’re all in the brothel going at it and smashing up the joint, and our pimp—that’s you, Lorenzo—is stood there, like, with dollar signs in his eyes basically, and our hero is, like, Wait a second, this isn’t right. This is the turning point when he decides to go it alone.
