I need a Boob Job

4. My Arms

I go to tell my Dad that I’m going round to John’s to have Sunday dinner with his family. As a result of the family break up he skits between being scarily over protective and wanting to give me anything I want. I imagine, so I don’t leave him/stop loving him/get upset about anything. Today he’s in the giving mood. He offers me a lift there and will collect me at 10pm so I’m ready for school the next day without being ‘too tired’. Four hours of alone time of which I am sure will not actually involve any kind of food. I wonder if he knows that my tiredness might be as a result of the stress of trying to be an adult girlfriend to this experienced older boy but I obviously don't mention this. I text John and say I’ll be over in thirty. He sends back a wink face emoji. WINKING. AHH. PRESSURE. Dad drops me off - he now knows where John lives and wrinkles his face somewhat at the messy garden of this terraced house on a not so salubrious estate. He doesn't say anything though. This is a new thing for Dad. Fear has muted him. I like this new less vocal father figure. It gives me space to pay attention to the shouting voice in my head running through infinite scenarios of how this evening is going to go. I smile, kiss my dad quickly on the cheek and run out - “See you at 10 sharp!” He calls at my back in a last ditch attempt at parenting. I throw a smile and a wave over my shoulder as I run to the door. John has opened it and grins broadly at my dad whilst waving hello and goodbye simultaneously. My Dad reluctantly drives off still looking at us in the mirrors. John invites me in with a kiss on the cheek and after closing the front door heads straight upstairs. “No parents here then?” I say. Why did I phrase it like this? Why not “Got a free house then?” My fear of being parentless is blatantly obvious. “Nah, they're out at a horse show- not back till tomorrow”. He says nonchalantly. I smile and shrug my shoulders in an attempt at nonchalance back. I think it probably looked like I was having a minor seizure. “Come on then.” He turns and finishes the last few steps in a sprint on his long lovely legs. I hesitate and follow.

His bedroom is surprisingly tidy. Everything grey and with a standard painted MDF Ikea wardrobe. His bed is neatly made though the duvet cover is a bit faded from endless washes. There’s a desktop computer on a desk by the window and a TV mounted on the wall facing the bed. “Did you tidy for me?” I ask. “Nah, I’m pretty OCD - I like stuff to be clean.” He replies. Ok, so he’s actually a clean person. His slightly messy appearance is clearly just a construct of his style - looking like he doesn't care but in fact he has carefully put together this lazy ‘I just threw this on’ vibe. I am wearing my light coloured hipster jeans with a grey baggy t-shirt and the wonderbra of dreams under it. Two jelly filled heaving cups of fakery. Just waiting to be unearthed. He puts on some music on his computer - some kind of popock s**t that doesn't have any meaning. I think its supposed to relax me but I feel anything but. I try to distract him with talking about a couple of his posters - bands I neither know or care about but anything to keep him off the grabbing and the kissing I know will soon ensue. My attempt at conversation is thwarted when he wraps his arms around me from behind and pins mine to my sides. His looped arms rest just below my chin with his height but I can tell they're itching to find new locations to explore. He walks me backwards from the wall and purposely falls on the bed with us stuck together like limpets. He wriggles around so we’re facing each other - still pinned between his strong arms. He starts to kiss me. Urgently, with his tongue. He makes my mouth all wet on the outside. I feel like I want to wipe my mouth. I pull away eventually stating a need for the bathroom. This may be a mistake. Perhaps he thinks in my fake maturity I’m going to the bathroom to ‘freshen up’ or put on something more ‘comfortable’. I think I have watched too many movies. What I really am doing is going to put my head between my knees and deep breathe. What am I doing?

My arms feel numb and useless. I feel like a slug who just had limbs implanted on it. No idea what these long wavy things are for, they hang there ineffectually. I splash my warming face gently and check out the more minimal makeup I have on. It actually kind of suits me. I don’t feel so heavy, weighed down by the cake. I mean, there’s only so much fakery you can get away with and the boobs are really taking the biscuit here. Sorry about all the food related imagery. I like to comfort eat sweet stuff when I’m worried. It’s obviously sneaking out into my brainwaves. Ok. It’s time. I return across the hallway to his bedroom. John’s still just laid out on the bed staring at the ceiling. When he sees me he smiles. “Hey beautiful. Come back here.” I would like to state no on both parts. I am most definitely not beautiful and no I don't want to but instead I sidle over and kind of perch on the edge of the bed.

He can obviously read my body language and jumps up to sitting. He crosses his legs and stares at me. He looks kind of angry and I realise I’ve made a big mistake. What am I doing here? I can’t give him what he wants. Jesus. I am terrified. He usually a calm, placid kind of guy but he looks pissed and I don’t know what to do. Finally he speaks. “Have you gone off me Katie? You don’t want to be near me, you freak out when I kiss you? What the f**k?” s**t. It’s out in the open. No passive aggressiveness here. No gently avoiding each other until its done. We’re having it out. Now. “No. Of course not - I - I -“. I don't finish the sentence. The choking stutter is emerging. There’s no way I can say - “Well, John. You’re gorgeous. Older, pretty nice to me and I really like you. You are the only piece of joy in my ruined home and social life. You’re the only reason I get out of bed and shower, and eat. I wait for your texts like the Jehovah’s desperately awaiting the messiah’s return. You are everything. and I’m a fake. I’m a teenager in a child’s body. I am terrified of showing you my real physical self. Please don’t leave me. Please. Everyone else has.”

I start to comprise a story in my head relating to too much going on at home and just needing some space so I can escape this without having to face my fears - but something stops me. It is the look in his eyes. He has gone from anger to fear. He looks scared, worried, upset. I realise that he thinks he’s the problem here. That he might actually like me. I try to speak again. Stop. And then the third time with his piercing gaze boring into my eyes I do something very out of character. I tell the absolute truth. I tell him the above. I tell him he’s my first proper boyfriend and I’m scared of being with him physically. I tell him I don’t really have any boobs and I wear a padded bra stuffed with jelly and I'm little more than n*****s and empty plains there. I explain that I’ve lost all my friends and I’m just lost. Whirling through teenage space and time with no f*****g clue. Except. Except that I love spending time with you. And I don’t want to put you off by not being the beautiful creature you want and deserve.

This all comes out in an almost violent explosion of words. It is fast, rushed, barely makes grammatical sense. I don't breathe until its over so the end is accompanied by a huge gasp of air intake as I realise that I have actually just expressed the nutty thoughts in my head to an external audience. Not only that - but JOHN. s**t. God damn it what have I done? I continue to deep breathe at the end of the bed. I have stood up at some point and the previously useless arms have been accentuating every point - flailing around wildly like an aggressed octopus. John just stares at me.

What have I done? I am about to lose the only regaining feature of my miserable existence. s**t. He still just stares. Then he looks down at his feet and take a big breath in. Oh dear. Here it comes. The, ‘I think you better leave chat’.

Then he starts speaking. “Katie. I wish you had said something. You’re MY first proper girlfriend and whilst I’m older I’ve never done more than kiss a girl. I’m f*****g terrified. My friends laugh at me and call me a p***y virgin - I don’t even know how this s**t works. My parents are together but never here. My older brother does his own thing. I cook every meal myself and work on my bike. Alone. All the time. YOU give me something to focus on other than that lonely crap. You are beautiful and jeez, boobs aren't everything. I’ve seen so many fake t**s on the internet - they aren't all that. They all look the same. Boring. You’re so SMART and CONFIDENT - I’ve been trying to play catch up. In the cinema I reacted like my mates do when their girls don’t give out. I hated myself for that. I was trying to think how to apologise but couldn't even do that. When you text I thought - oh right, that’s how girls like it and respond. I’m sorry. I do know better, even if I don’t know what I’m doing.” He’s flushed now but he delivers this whole speech staring into his lap.

Is this possible? Have we just bared our feelings to each other. And wait?! Nothing has happened. The earth’s surface has not cracked open and swallowed me into a vortex. I am still standing here. Breathing. Feeling. I am not dead out of shame. I am still in one piece. I feel a huge weight lift from my tiny shoulders. I feel relieved. Light, airy. Free. Why do we people not do this? It’s so much better than holding all this crap inside where it magnifies and multiplies into issues that feel insurmountable. I realise I’m OK. I focus and look across. John does not look ok. He looks up and I realise he is crying. Silent little tears drip down his cheeks. f**k. Why do the women in my family seem to make men cry all of a sudden? What is happening here?

I go to him and just hug him. With my skinny tiny girl arms. I just hold him and he just kind of heaves up and down and I realise that I am not alone. I am not the only one with the voices in my head or the unkind friends and family s**t. Is this the case for everyone? Do we all feel these dread inducing fears and worries? It that why we hurt each other? Because we’re so scared to show our inner panics and broken bits? So we lash out at others because it distracts others from out inner turmoil? A switch clicks in my brain and I feel like I absolutely know with all certainty that the answers to these questions are YES. Jesus, deep s**t on the supposed day of rest. John and I just sit there hugging and I hope he is feeling the same inside. He is not alone. I don't want to probe just now. Everything is going to be ok. I am OK. John is sad too, but against all odds he too will be fine.

We just had to be honest.