Phoenix’s first taste

I’d spent my life being Phoenix West, a good girl.

Looking into the mirror, I noticed how pretty my body was. I wasn’t ashamed of it. Years of dance had kept my stomach trim, hips curving in to my waist and my breasts, 34Ds, offering the lovely shape of my 5’8″ figure. My skin was a beautiful olive colour I’d inherited from my mother, and surrounding my heart shaped face was a mass of dark, almost black hair. I took pride in every inch of myself, making sure it was all plucked, waxed and pruned to perfection. My chocolate toned eyes were always made up beautifully and my pout barely covered with a layer of lipgloss. I was pretty, and in my opinion incredibly so. However, no guy had ever touched me. In earnest, my hymen had broken when I’d been practising the splits once. But aside from that, I’d not even had someone of the opposite sex brush their lips against mine.

I’d worried I was a lesbian, or that I saw something different to what everyone else saw. But if I was completely honest with myself, I supposed it was my own fault. Being such a well behaved person, no man had ever been allowed to lay a finger on me in my whole 19 years of living. Now I was in university, it was about time to let my hair down.

After what seemed like hours of carefully observing my reflection, I was torn away from my supposed doppleganger by a quick rap of knuckles at my door. My roommate, Simon, wanted me to go out with him tonight. I cringed thinking about it. Alcohol had never touched my lips, which was rather pathetic. I whined in protest as he noticed the nervous expression on my face and grabbed my hand. “You won’t chicken out of this tonight!” he announced, grinning. I tried to smile, barely managing to curve my lips as he pulled me away, barely giving me time to grab my purse. I’d chosen a small black dress, one my mom had picked up for me.