The first time was in a seedy Sydney brothel after the silver medal. Kris' was covering for you, lying to the reporters that you were partying with the team, lying to the team that you were mewed up with the press. She and one of the other girls had found this place, somehow; you didn't bother asking questions, just knocked on the door. If anyone recognized the girl wonder, no one said. If anyone was surprised, they didn't let on. Then again, they probably got a lot of this, considering that none of them happened to be surprised when you said that you needed a girl.

She had jet black hair, so obviously dyed that you didn't bother calling her on it, cut so short you could see her dandruff between the strands. She couldn't have been more than five years older than you were, but from the way she held herself you first thought she'd been in this business longer than you'd even been alive. You couldn't tell what color her eyes were when she turned a bloodshot, narrowed gaze to you, looking you up and down, gauging what she saw. From the way her lip curled, you gathered that she wasn't impressed. For some reason, she bothered you- not because of the way she was so openly grading you, because you were used to that from coaches and scouts, but from the way that you could read nothing from her. She had learned how to keep everything hidden, and for one brief second you envied her that control, wished that you could learn it, though you knew that it would probably involve selling your soul the way she had. And that was what drew you up short, because you had already sold your soul to the game, and there was no way you could get it back, as far as you knew; this… this offered you the only outlet that you could think of, a first step that would set you on a path to reclaiming your own life.

She didn't speak very much, just ordered you to get your clothes off and get this over with. She sounded bored. She probably was. She probably didn't know who you were, nor would she have cared if she did. You were just another piece of flesh to her, only different because you lacked another piece of flesh that most of her clients had. Then again, maybe even not that; maybe she was kept only for women. No, probably not, you concluded, seeing the cracked and discolored plaster of the walls, a foul yellow that reminded you of piss. They couldn't afford to save any of their whores for any special kind of person, not unless there was a hefty retainer involved.

One of your talents, one of those things that made you more special than anyone the program had seen in years, was your ability to think about everything at once. You could take in your surroundings and the whore awaiting you and take off your clothes at the same time without anything seeming odd. You could wonder just how the hell it was that a nice girl like one of your teammates would know about a shit hole like this even as the woman climbed over you, sharp fingernails leaving indentations like clawmarks on your pale skin. She didn't bother with much foreplay; your guess was that she didn't see the need- brisk and efficient, this one, if she wasn't whoring she might have made a good secretary. Then again, maybe that was where she learned some of her skills, where she learned how to make you twitch when her fingers brushed against your opening. Once she found that, it was the work of moments for her to get inside and there she was inside you and you marveled at that.

She was rough and quick, and possessed the delicacy of the bull in a china shop, but you clung to her anyway because she was the only thing that could keep you from falling even as she was the one that pushed you over the edge. She knew her business, knew how to find your spot with brutal efficiency, found that spot and attacked it with skilled hands. She shifted atop you, curling in, half-reversing; you couldn't see but you could feel, and all too soon you could feel a lot more; if you could have seen inside there, you would have honestly sworn that she left the marks of her teeth that were almost as sharp as the fingernails that had scored your skin. It hurt, but the hurt felt good, it felt like freedom. Everything else fell prey to feelings and sensations that you'd never experienced, never thought you'd experience from a woman, and all thought fell under a wave of emotion.

When you were finished, when the air had come back into your lungs, when you could think and move again, and you found your clothes in a pile at the foot of the broken-down bed, you thanked her. For the first time you hadn't felt like someone special or unique, and that was reassuring; you felt that you could be simply yourself instead of what everyone else expected you to be.

She was already lighting a joint, the smell of burning grass the most pleasant aroma in the building. When she heard you, she snickered, said that when men said thank you it meant that if there was a baby or a disease it couldn't possibly and had better not be their fault. You told her not to worry, it would take a miracle for her to get pregnant off you and since this was your first time, you didn't have anything to bring in. The weed had to be loosening her up, because she actually laughed that time, a deep gleeful laugh; for a second you got a glimpse of the soul underneath the cold shell bfore she withdrew again. You tipped her and left her to sink into herself. When you came back to the team, there were questions, because there are always questions; you answered them all with a mysterious smile and a tissue of half-truths.

This was your first fuck, and from that you learned that you could be nothing special.

The first time was just past the last outpost of what you think passes for civilization here, deep in the Outback per her request. You'd talked about it after the first round back in the States, agreeing that it would be wrong for two Aussies to consummate a relationship on foreign soil, especially when it came to being women; the only way it would be right was if you were home. So you waited. Went home, unwound, settled down from the wild feelings that had torn through you during the season. Until she was at your door in one in the morning in clothes that couldn't have handled the summer you had just left, much less the early part of spring in your homeland. She told you that she needed you, needed... but you put your mouth to hers, kept the words from coming out because they would have been a useless redundancy because you needed her as much as she needed you and neither of you was stupid and you both could see it.

Her car was outside, of course- how else could she have gotten to you? You found an old blanket from your mum, an ugly thing with horses stitched on it, and tossed it in the backseat. She told you her idea on how to make it better, and you liked it a lot- it seemed right in a way you'd never thought of before. The thought of delaying was too much, but you managed to control yourself- throwing her to the ground and having at her was tempting, but you couldn't do that to her. If you only knew.

You drove her, and she drove you, and somewhere in between you two managed to get a car to the desert wastes that symbolized the end of civilization and the beginning of the primordial, a realm where reality is fluid, where anything often goes. She knew a spot- you didn't ask how; for all you knew she knew because she knew and that was all there was to it; things like that happen with women and the supernatural and love and other strange things like that. She guided you in more ways that one, and you found the place she meant, and understood why it seemed so special. There was nothing out there except the flat red earth, and nothing above except the star-littered sky; it seemed like there was nothing left to the planet, just you and her and this piece of land that could stretch for eternity or come up short not ten paces from where you stood. You told her that, and she grinned, agreeing.

She took the blanket out of the backseat and spread it over the hard ground so you wouldn't accidentally hurt yourselves while doing things. Her hands were shaking as she came to stand next to you, and it wasn't from the cold. You saw the fear in her stance, and you realized that she'd never done this before, with anyone, anywhere. You wrapped your arms around her, feeling the wiry muscle that underlay her delicate skin, taking in that all her strength would avail her of nothing if she didn't get over her fear. You held her for a while, until her tremors wound down to just the shivers of a chilly night. She smiled weakly at you, and with your eyes you promised that you'd never tell anyone. You kissed her then, understanding that much, sensing that she needed that. Her eyes flickered to the blanket, and she said quietly that she'd like to...

Clothes were divested in a hurry, and soon she was completely nude beneath you and you could see all those parts of her that you had only theorized about, all the curves both small and large that made up her form. She was utterly exposed, and so were you, both naked to each other's gazes. You cupped her chin just for a second, just to reassure her, then moved southward and took her the way the whore had taken you. Her back arched into a curve rigid enough to hold up architecture; her eyes first widened, then closed so tightly that tears fell along her beautiful face. She tried to hold you up, then fell limp on the blanket, suddenly unresponsive. Whatever she might have been feeling, whatever might have been stirred in her by the action of hormones reacting with each other, was hidden away. You put a hand to her cheek, trying to wipe away a stray tear, but she recoiled from your touch, sticky with the proof of what you had done.

You could feel where her fingers had left an imprint along your shoulder, molding indentations like you were potter's clay. She looked at you with eyes as blue as the ocean over the Reef, blonde hair and fair skin washed deathly white under the moon. She was an angel in your eyes, and as you saw the tender places on her body where your touch would leave angry accusatory bruises in the morning, you realized that you had haled her down from heaven like some sort of infernal demon. You hurt her- it was as simple as that.

Even as the thoughts tumbled through your head, she stared at you, then got up and dressed, walking quickly away once she was decent just to get away from you and what you had done to her. She disappeared against the backdrop of midnight sky and glittering stars, left you crying her tears because you realized the mistake you made.

This was the first time you had ever screwed anyone, and from that you learned that she was everything that was special to you.

The first time was half an hour later, after you had gone out looking for her and after her head had cleared. You begged her forgiveness on bended knee, praying that she had a big enough heart to forgive you for being such an utter fuck-up. Moonlight reflected off the tracks of her tears, glistened where your fingerprint still marred the perfection of her face as proof of the crime you had committed against her.

Maybe she saw your contrition and understood that you had never known anything else. Maybe she loved you enough that she was willing to go through that again just to be with you. Maybe she thought it was a one-off and the next time you would know how to be a more gentle lover. The third was closest to being true, because though you didn't know precisely how to take it more gently, you could guess and that would have to be good enough. Whatever she chose, it was enough for her to sit on the blanket, huddled up inside herself as if the cold had invaded. You held her again, not trying to do anything else for a long time until she sighed and rested her head against your bare shoulder. Afraid to try anything else, you brushed your lips against her cheek; her skin was soft and cool. She turned her head towards you; you tried to move away, thinking you'd gone too far again, but she put her hand to the back of your neck and you realized that she wanted you to kiss her on the mouth. You did so, lips parting, both yours and hers; you could taste her breath and it was sweet, and you didn't even want to think about what you must have tasted like.

She drew you down on top of her, and those clothes that you had donned on the off chance that someone who cared would be about- they disappeared in a heartbeat, her heartbeat that you could feel against your chest because you were so close together. You held her close for a long time, simply because you wanted to keep her there forever, didn't want to take another step because you didn't want to hurt her again. Time could have stepped, the world could have ceased to spin, and it wouldn't have mattered so long as you could keep holding her against your naked body, drinking in the heat she radiated, savoring every second as if it would never happen again. You trailed a fingertip along her chest, to the sensitive spot between her breasts where you could feel her heartbeat most strongly; you stopped there just so you could enjoy that sensation, but she wouldn't let you stay stopped. If you were going to prove that you could be her lover, you were going to have to do it in a hurry. Your hands moved downward, but more gently this time, eliciting small moans from her; you lingered, you caressed, you took what time you could take to get to the eventual destination.

You were there, in that proof that she was a natural blonde (or a very determined artificial one). She laughed when you pointed that out, or at least tried to laugh. You hesitated, tracing circles on the soft skin on the inside of her thigh, before penetrating. You didn't do it quickly, you didn't do it roughly, and she appreciated that this time. She curved against you, curved into you, skin rubbing against yours gently as she clung to you; you could tell to the nanosecond when you had her at the climax, when she could take no more, when she surrendered to what she was feeling and did so willingly because this time she knew she wanted it.

The pair of you grappled on that blanket for what seemed like forever, and somehow you found yourself on the bottom. No one ever said that she wasn't a quick learner, and she brought you to the cliched height of passion so perfectly that you had to reassess your initial judgement that she hadn't done this before. But you couldn't do that at the time, because you couldn't think at the time because who can ever think at the time? All you knew was that you loved her and she loved you and having her with you felt like the best goddamn thing that could ever happen to you: better than any championship or medal or victory, better than the game, better than defeating a rival or hitting a game-winner, better than the adoration the game allows you to have. You'd trade all of that for a quiet life with her, in a world where no one would look at you sidewise because both of you were women.

But when you told her that, she said no, then outlined the perfect life, and you realized that she was right, again. You could have her and the game, because she understood what you didn't want to understand. She knew that you could never be happy without the game, because your soul was bound up in it. She knew not just because she knew you, but because she too was caught in the trap; after all, only thirteen days separated you, and maybe a year or so of pro experience, but she understood the pressure to perform. In so many ways she was perfect for you, and it was amazing that you hadn't figured it out sooner. She would stand with you, she would stay with you, she would be able to put up with everything that you might dump on her because she would have the same stuff dumped on her.

After that conversation, she wanted you again, and since unlike a man you didn't need to wait to refuel, you gave in to her whim. Now that you had a little more experience with her under your belt, you could make her melt in your hands. But she had some ideas of her own, and when she put those into play it seemed as if your world had shattered into a million pieces, each with a totally different feeling attached, and by the time you tried to describe them all to yourself they had changed. For a brief second, the two of you were one being with the same heartbeat and the same thoughts, and to let go of that was agonizing, but it was almost a good kind of pain; it was like dying and being reborn as hers and only hers, as if anyone who looked at you would see immediately that you were hers and she was yours and it really was that simple.

When she was satisfied with you, she lay her head on your chest, pretending to be dissatisfied with the amount of natural pillow available. She teased you about that for a while, then nestled against your shoulder; within five minutes she was sound asleep, her breath coming slow and even, blonde hair rubbing along your cheek just enough to be distracting. You kissed her on the forehead once, and her eyelids fluttered, and a small smile appeared on her face. She snuggled closer, and you allowed the steady rhythm of her body to soothe you until you were finally asleep.

This was your first time making love, and you learned that you were something very special- not because of your game, but because she loved you.