The first girl's hair is wet and smells like chlorine; he clumsily tries to push it from her face when she kisses him.
The last girl's teeth are yellow and half-missing.
There is a succession of women between: illicit under-the-bleachers fucks, quick dirty shags on the couches in the places where he buys his hits, a year of nothing but April with her dyed-black hair and her painted toenails and perfect slurring voice. A handful of easily-impressed nose-ringed hippie girls at whom he quotes Kerouac until they fall for it. A chubby girl with enormous green eyes, encountered at the bookstore. A zoned-out rich girl with expensive shoes, snagged from a party he wasn't qualified to be at.
The first girl takes his hand and pulls him into the downstairs bathroom when no one is looking, and when he realizes what is happening his heart races.
The last girl crawls into his sleeping bag and puts her hands into his jeans, and at first he tries to push her away, disgusted, ashamed.
The first girl is a party-goer, one of the three dozen in his parents' house. His siblings are good at keeping a secret; no one will find out about this party in the same way that no one found out about the others. He cleans up meticulously afterwards, every time.
She is one of seven or eight girls in the pool, where he sits on the edge and watches their butts with their clinging swimsuits breaking the surface, and the dainty arches of their feet as they dive. He dangles his legs in the water, jeans rolled up above the knee; he is growing his hair out long despite his father's sidelong looks and sarcastic commentary and he is absently twisting it in loops around his finger, like a valley girl, when she pulls herself up next to him like a mermaid coming ashore and suddenly wraps her arms around his neck. He nearly drops his cigarette.
He is fifteen. She is seventeen. The girls in the pool shriek and giggle and cheer. He pulls away from her eventually to go and answer questions about who can go get smokes and beer. There are much, much older boys here. But she finds him again, three times during the next hour, and every time, tipsy and giggling, she kisses him on the mouth. The third time he kisses the pool-smelling curve of her brown-skinned neck and that is when she pulls him towards the bathroom and whispers that she has a condom.
The last girl stands beneath the overpass with the rest of them, and she looks like she is forty so she is probably twenty-something, and he asks her if she has a sleeping bag. She says no, and for a while he lets it go, because it's none of his business. But people freeze on the ground out here, and she looks like a prostitute dressed for work but she isn't working. Numb, apathetic, he surprises himself by throwing aside the corner of the sleeping bag and saying "get in" like he's telling her to get the fuck off his lawn.
She asks if he wants any, and he asks if it's heroin, and she says no, it's cystal, so he declines. She smells like clothes left to dry in the floor and like cigarettes; he says nothing because he knows he smells still worse than that. He can distinctly see the two long bones of her forearms in the orange gleam of the street lights on the other side of the overpass when she crawls in next to him. Perhaps thirty seconds pass before she reaches down and grabs his cock, and he shifts away from her. But she tries again, and he is cold. He is cold and for days no one has spoken a word to him that made him feel human. He is a stray animal shunted from one warm spot to the next, whimpering and cringing, and he knows that she is simply paying him for the place to sleep and he does not care.
She is a prostitute, he thinks, as she pulls a condom out of her bra. Maybe she just wants to get the clock punched early.
There are four or five others gathered around half-asleep, on the nod or drunk, and some of them watch the two skinny bodies moving in the sleeping bag but no one comments. They copulate in silence, like dogs, and like dogs remain together, until he worries about the condom and pushes her away.
When he wakes the next morning she is gone already. At least, he thinks dimly, she did not freeze to death. He checks his pockets and finds that she has taken his cigarettes.
The first girl crouches down on the floor next to him and she is beautiful, young and laughing and flush with the rebellion of fucking the neighbor's eldest son in the downstairs bathroom.
The last girl puts her bony arms around him because he is warm, or at least warmer than the air around them. The sex is quick and unfulfilling; he finishes only half-hard, like a fat old man.
The first girl touches his long hair and his pierced ears and she smiles, and the sight of the mint-green lace along the cup of her bra sends a jolt to his belly, painful and sudden.
The last girl runs her fingers over the back of his shaved head and falls asleep cradling his skeletal shoulder in the hollow of her palm, and all the women that went before her in a decade of pursuit and conquest are clutched in the scabby fingers of her shaking hands.
For three weeks after he dreams of chlorine and mint green lace.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/1pr3fo/first_and_final_women_mf_a_little_grim