Staring at the ceiling, I wondered what this would mean for us. He groaned with pleasure as I lay there, quiet. Was I supposed to love him? What did love even feel like?

It didn’t last long, maybe thirty seconds and he was done. He flopped on the bed, panting.

I rose, and a small bloodstain remained on the sheets. Snatching my panties from the floor, I balled them up in my hand, stuffing them into the pocket of my dress.

“I have to go,” I decided, my stomach clenching and retracting like a deflating balloon.

“Why?” Ethan asked, lying flat on his back, his thick blond eyebrows furrowed.

“My parents will wonder where I am.”

“Can’t you stay?” He pulled the condom off and, from where he laid, tossed it in the direction of the garbage, missing by an inch. It hit the concrete ground with a wet splatter. His penis had shrunk and was flopped onto his leg, looking even grosser than when it was hard.

I tried not to show my repulsion, smiling sweetly. “I’ll call you later. I promise.”

“Okay.” He puckered his lips and blew me a kiss.

After that, he became increasingly obsessed with me. He told me he loved me constantly, walking me to and from class, carrying my books in one arm, the other tightly clung around my shoulder. I didn’t feel the same, but I revelled in the power imbalance.

A few weeks later, I told Ethan I didn’t want to be his girlfriend anymore. As I turned to leave, he grabbed my arm, his eyes filled with tears. “If you leave, I don’t know what I’ll do.” He breathed heavily, his chest heaving. “I’ll kill myself.”

As I walked out, I couldn’t help but smile. It was thrilling.

Ethan didn’t kill himself, and when he showed up at school the next day, he told everyone I was a slut. The boys on the hockey team starting messaging me at night, asking for photos of my tits. They said I made their cocks hard, and I grinned behind the screen, realizing how easy it was.

Last I heard, Ethan had married at twenty-four in our hometown church and has two kids, both girls.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Dr. Jones announced as she entered the office, closing the door behind her.

I had already peed in a plastic cup. The doctor asked us to come receive the results in person. I knew I was pregnant; I didn’t need to hear it from her. My boobs were so tender I couldn’t even wear a bra. Everything tasted like metal: shiny, chemical, and grey. I just didn’t know how far along I was. I had a hazy memory of when the conception might have occurred. We’d been drunk off our asses, high on something, and didn’t use a condom. Jack said it was fine because I was on the pill. The problem was that I was so fucked up most days, I couldn’t remember if I had taken it or not. I didn’t tell Jack that.