This is Not True

[Um, think of this like a ghost story, maybe, so how a ghost story is meant to have a first-person narrator and claim it really honestly happened to me, omg! I’ll explain down the bottom. Just read this how it is for now.]



So a while ago I put a thing on the internet. A story, a confession. Whatever.



When I was fifteen I had an affair with a man who was about thirty. Looking back now, it was probably a terrible thing for him to have done, but it didn’t really feel like it at the time. Not to me. He mattered to a lot me, and the sex we had mattered too, and I still don’t really think badly of him, which I suppose is why I’m talking about now.

It’s odd, though, thinking that I’m older now than he was when he was fucking me.

I’m not sure how I feel, to be honest. He was sweet. He was a gentle person. He was nice to me. He let me sit on his face, for hours. I mean hours. I remember kneeling there, lost, like I was in a trance, just feeling him, feeling his mouth, and stroking his hair. I probably made him prematurely bald, I was tugging on his hair so much.

I wanted sex a lot, then. I mean, I still want sex a lot, but I’m more comfortable with that now. Then, it bothered me. I remember I’d worked out I needed it more than most of my friends, and I wasn’t really okay knowing that. Not at fifteen. So I sat on his face. It was like a deal, I suppose. I got sex without being judged, and he got to fuck a fifteen year old.

Although, to be fair, I really don’t think it was just that for him. I think he felt uncomfortable with my age. I mean, he liked fifteen-year-old tits and fifteen-year-old pussy, but he didn’t actually like my age. I think it was more he felt something about his life slipping away, that he felt he was about to get old, and this was his last chance and he’d never get something again which he’d taken for granted until now. I don’t know. I always felt like it wasn’t just sex with someone young, for him. Like he wasn’t actually a monster, and he hadn’t done it before. Just that he needed to now, at this time in his life.

The thing I remember is that he wouldn’t fuck me in my school uniform. We have school uniforms, here, and he wouldn’t fuck me in mine. It really bothered him, and he just refused. I remember that very clearly, having to change somewhere on the way to his place, after school. A shopping centre or a railway station or whatever.

I think that means something. He wanted me, like my need for sex and my willingness to try things. He didn’t necessarily need me at fifteen, instead of eighteen. It just happened to work out that way.

Anyway. So I had an affair with an older guy, and sat on his face, and let him fuck me, and honestly, just fucking honestly, it was beautiful and good and sweet, not sick, like it really ought to be.




So that was what I wrote, and put on the internet, and that’s all fine.

Then it got a little weird.

I wrote this a while ago, I suppose because it felt safer, revealing that particularly, rather than other things about me. I suppose because it had always been a secret, like this is, and because I was assuming that if the only other person who knew ever saw it, he wouldn’t say. Because of how fucking fifteen-year-old girls is illegal.

So it sat there, and people read it, and a bit of time passed. Then I get an email. An odd email, an email about that story, saying, “I think I know who you are. I think it was me you did this with.”

So that was weird. Really completely weird, actually.

Oh. To explain. This isn’t my real name. We all got that by now, right? So that’s why he isn’t sure he knows me, and kind of the same way, because of the illegal and embarrassment part, he’s sent that message from an obviously fake email address. So we can’t both just look at the names and go, oh yeah, it’s you.

So anyway, he emails, and basically says that he thinks he knows who I am, but doesn’t want to say in case he’s wrong, and he gives me someone else’s name by accident. Because that would be wrong, sharing a secret he knows like that, without knowing it really is me.

And that makes sense to me. It actually does. So I think for a while, and then I email back, “Well, I guess same, dude. With the not asking and not giving you someone’s name. So what do we do?”

“Do you remember anything about me?” he says.

“Only what I wrote.”

“Nothing about tattoos?”

I think really hard. I think, but can’t remember, because it was sixteen years ago, half my life. And that’s counting a whole lot of my life I hardly remember anyway, like when I was two. “Honestly,” I say. “No I don’t. Do you remember anything about me?”

“You have moles,” he says, which is true.


“On your chest and back and shoulders.”

So okay, I mean, yes, that’s true, but it’s also sort of vague, because so do lots of other people. So, well, I’m still not really sure. I’m also wondering whether he really honestly thinks he’s the guy, or if he’s just some weirdo trying it on. I’m unreasonably suspicious, I suppose. But then again, I’m a famous secret internet smut writer, so I have to be.

Anyway, so I think about what to say. Like how to check who we are. I don’t want to ask anything specific, like do I have a triangle of moles on my tummy just to the left of my tummy button, or something like that. I don’t want to ask specifically, because if I ask about something I do actually have, then suddenly he knows more about me than anyone else on the internet, and that’s bad if he is only a random weirdo. But also, if I ask about something I don’t have, kind of testing him to see if he calls me on it, then actually it doesn’t really prove anything because maybe he says yes even if he can’t actually remember, like I can’t remember if he had tattoos.

So I don’t know what to do.

“Where are you?” I say thinking it might be worth checking. “Which city? Which city did this happen in? And what colour’s my hair?”

The last bit was, just because. I’ve never dyed mine, not ever, because I look shit blonde, and I know this because wigs. So if he happened to have known a blonde, that solves all that fairly easily.

But he tells me, and gets both right. Although Sydney and dark hair isn’t unusual, really.

We talk a bit more. We both get more specific, slowly, about where and what we both look like and what we did together. It’s tricky, remembering, after all this time, and tricky as much for having to untangle memories of him from memories of other people, too. Yes, I did fuck fairly often in the back of cars, but I can’t remember every single time, and with who, or what each person looked like, or exactly what kind of car. That kind of thing.

So anyway. We get specific, and slowly I realize it isn’t him.

It isn’t him because there’s dozens of little things which I remember and he doesn’t. Far too many for it to just be our bad memories. Like going away together to the south coast, which I remember clearly and he says we never did. Like how he thinks he bought wine and beer for me and my friends, and I remember he never did, and actually, that me even asking him to always freaked him out. Because I did ask, obviously, and my guy just wouldn’t. That was the thing that made me certain, actually. It was such a big, big deal to me, that he wouldn’t, but this guy on the email insisted he had. I thought about that a lot, and in the end it made sense, because really, the not buying liquor seemed to fit with being horrified by school uniforms, and the more I thought about it, the more they just didn’t seem like the same guy, even with fifteen years of him remembering it all how he wanted to remember.

We talked about other things too. Who we were, and what we were doing with ourselves now. Talking in between working all this out, I suppose, and then later talking because we had this thing in common, even though I was staring to be certain it wasn’t him. I told him I was trying to be a writer. He told me he still felt guilty about sleeping with someone so young. We agreed it was probably bad we still both still remembered what we’d each done, and still both thought about it. And that we both thought about it more than we probably should.

In the end we trusted each other enough that he told me the name of the fifteen-year-old he’d fucked back in 1997, and it wasn’t me.

I didn’t know what to tell him. I said it wasn’t me. He didn’t want to believe that. We were both pretty caught up in the whole idea of this reconnection by then. He believed me in the end, though, and said goodbye, and that he probably wouldn’t be in touch again, because it hurt a lot, he said, finding me again and then discovering it wasn’t actually me. Or the other me. You know what I mean.

Anyways, we said goodbye, and then I wrote this, because I’m still thinking about it. Because now I’ve stopped talking to him so much, I’m weirdly bothered about this other fifteen-year-old. Men fucking me back then, that I’m fine with. I wanted it, so for me it wasn’t wrong. It was good and perfect and exactly what I needed, and I’m still glad I did. But her, that other fifteen-year-old. For her, this really bothers me. It really does. I don’t know about her, and some of the stuff he said just seems a little off, a little controlling and obsessive, now it isn’t me. Him telling her what to do, and being proud of shaping who she was. The thing about giving her liquor. Really the thing about liquor. The more I think about it, the more I think my guy was right not to, and that getting a fifteen year old pissed and fucking her, that I don’t think is okay.

I think it’s not okay enough that I have to do something. Not okay enough that I’m going to give her name to the police.

So dude, if you’re reading this, I’m really sorry, but fair warning. If it had been me, no worries, we’re sweet. But for her, I have to say something. What you did was wrong, not like what my guy did to me. Because I’m glad he did, and I’ll never forget him, but you I need to tell the cops about. Because of the liquor, mostly.

I’m sorry.


[Um so – this is a story, and made up. This did not happen. Just to be clear. Because I don’t usually write first-person, or confessional, or whatever this is. And because it’s a weird topic, and it’s obviously a narrator sort of intentionally pretending to be me, with enough true stuff it might be unclear. So I just wanted to say that really, absolutely clearly, so no-one panics on my behalf or thinks something awful or whatever they might think. So no. Not me. Just a story.]