Hugo feels guilty. Why can’t he stop looking at other girls. He realises that he wouldn’t cheat on Sandra, but it doesn’t stop him looking, imagining and fantasising about the other ones.
That affects Hugo.
Why is it that his other friends can simply fall head over heels in love? Or do they use it as a mask, a cover for their true feelings. Maybe they keep it a secret just like Hugo does. This notion acts as a wonderful momentary relief to Hugo, like the start of a rain shower when you feel those first few drops.
Hugo feels guilty. Sex is on his mind whenever he’s alone, and often when he’s not. It annoys him, it fucking stays there chanting at him, jeering Virgin! Virgin!.
He thinks deeply when is alone. He thinks about Sandra, he wants her, but then again he wants anyone. Hugo knows on some subconscious level that he wants her because he understands that he will have her. For some reason the acknowledgement that as soon as he has had sex all will be right in his world is assumed. He doesn’t hope this is true, he doesn’t worry that this isn’t true. He knows. It’s true.
Hugo also believes, though not with quite as much assurance, that he will disappoint. Hugo is an average young man, and this fact shows him that whatever he does the probably will not match up to expectations.
Her last one (her only one) will forever be the comparison. So many times has the knowledge that a first time is never omitted from the memory plagued his mind. Hugo has finally admitted to himself that Carol was sexual infactuation, perfection would have been sleeping with her, both of them together sharing their first time.
Two years have passed since that first girl made him realistically think about sex as more than a thing done by old people. To achieved the goal of having sex would have been a fantastic achievement before the age of sixteen. What a great thing that would have been, with the wrong person of course, but regardless a great addition to the sexual CV.
It wouldn’t have been love, but that concept was such an elusive thing to Hugo at the time, and still is in some respects (but he won’t know that until later). He assumes that to make love, you must be at least able to someday love the girl. Therefore it wouldn’t have been right, not love – just sex – making sex. ? .
Maybe it isn’t love now, despite Hugo feeling as if love is enveloping him, smothering his reason like a tobacco cloud, coating his eyes, nostrils and mouth with that stench, so wonderful to him but so revolting to the people ignorant of it’s effect.
He can’t quite articulate the feeling the indescribable longing that eats him up yet at the same time frees him to think optimistically about almost anything. He continues to ponder, maybe love is just the desire for sex, the truth at this stage in his life is hard to attain, but he will know soon he feels. He makes a mental note to return to this after he has finally had sex.
Failure, the hypothetic idea of failure suddenly pours back into his mind, flooding the open hallways of his reasoning. The irony of his situation makes him feel sick.
He wants to have sex but is afraid to do it.
Ever since Rose and that night that still nearly a year after remains vivid….
