by Ang Griffen
Sometimes it seems like you didn't learn how freakish you actually were until ninth grade, but secretly, you knew long, long before that. The things you knew weren't quite as disturbing as x-ray vision, or waking up floating, but they were disturbing just the same because you knew they weren't normal.
It started happening when you were thirteen, seventh grade, pretty average age for that sort of thing. You knew that that part was normal, that tingling, pulling, gasping sensation when you looked at pretty girls, or thought about kissing them, or sometimes for no good reason at all in the middle of math class. That was normal. What wasn't normal was what happened when you did something about it.
You knew that it was okay to touch yourself, that everyone did it at some point or another, and when you first tried, you mostly felt stupid and blushing, but also really good, and wanted more. Wanted more of that touch, gripping and stroking, and it was pretty clumsy, and not quite right, but it was enough that your hips started jerking, and you felt like static was pouring out of you, like all the tension in the world was leaving your body.
The first time you jerked off, you broke your bed.
That's the part that you're sure wasn't normal. Because it wasn't a one time occurance, and your dad started looking at you oddly the third time you told him that you'd broken your bedframe by jumping on the bed. No, really, Dad. You were sure he didn't actually believe you, but it was nice that he pretended. It became obvious that you just couldn't do it in your bed by the time you snapped the slim brass rail of your headboard in half once when you came. You never were able to come up with any sort of plausible excuse for that.
You thought about moving all your sheets and blankets to the floor the next time, but that was the time your mom nearly walked in on you, and it was kind of embarrassing having to find a reasonable explanation for having all your sheets and blankets lying on the floor, and no shirt on.
The only place left is the barn loft, and even there, anyone could walk in on you, and you're not entirely sure that you won't somehow break through the wooden floor of the loft and crash to the ground below. A broken bed is one thing, but a broken loft is quite another.
The main problem isn't really the property damage resulting from your sex drive, but the knowledge that if you can break a bed that easily, have your handprint firmly imprinted in the wall of the barn from a particularly good orgasm, if you can destroy sturdy inanimate objects that easily, you don't want to imagine what you could do to a person.
It's easy to want the unobtainable because of it. You'll never have a chance with Lana, so it's okay to let yourself want her. You'll never have to explain to her that no, you can't have sex with her because you'd probably snap her in half. You don't have to explain what you are to her so she'll understand why anything beyond kissing is impossible. It's easier to want something you'll never get, and to close your eyes at night and imagine. Imagine a world where you're not a freak, a world where you're normal and can touch like anyone else. You imagine what it would be like to have the unobtainable, which for you, is pretty much everything.
You're fairly sure that part of the reason you managed to keep screwing up with Lana is that secretly, you didn't really want her. You wouldn't know what to do with yourself if you got her. When Lex started nearly throwing her at you, you weren't sure whether to be happy that he cared about you enough to try to give you something you so desperately wanted, or to feel awful because you still had to reject his gift, reject Lana because it would never work. You weren't sure how Lex managed to turn the unobtainable into the oh-so-attainable for you, but once Lana started looking at you with big, wide, doe-eyes -- eyes that said "yes," and "please," and "Clark" -- it was like the magic was gone, like some part of you knew that you couldn't stay attracted to people who wanted you back.
So your body went all out after Lana lost her appeal, found you someone you'd never have a chance with in a million years. You had a sexy dream about Lex, and that's when you realized how insane this unobtainable thing had become. Lex was everything you'd never get to have because he was older, sophisticated, rich, male. He didn't need you, no matter how much he said he did. He may try to tell you that you're friends, but you know that you're barely acquaintances. There's no way, even in the furthest reaches of your mind, that Lex would ever be within your reach.
And you're okay with that because at night you can imagine all sorts of beautiful things about his mouth and his ass and his voice, things that would happen, you're sure, if only you were normal. You can pretend, at least for fifteen minutes, that Lex really would say "God, yes," and kiss you, pressing you into his bed, and you wouldn't have to worry about breaking the bed, or Lex, in two, could just lay back, relax, and feel. You can pretend that he wants you back, and that it would be okay if he did. Afterwards, as the tiniest masturbatory afterglow fades, you feel dirty and stupid, but that doesn't stop you from wanting Lex still, because you know that as long as you're wanting what you'll never have, everything will stay safe.