Booby Traps
—
Ryan-Ashley Anderson
THE FIRST TIME I KISS A GIRL, I’m nine years old. We’re lying together in the top bunk of her little bedroom, watching the sky turn from black to purple-gray, while the T.V. glows blue from where the VHS tape ran out. The floor is covered with jacks, a chair sits with its back wedged up against the door knob, and a water balloon sits, squat, on its seat.
We spend the evening watching VH1 Pop-Up Videos and reading bible verses before turning on Ghost, which we are definitely not allowed to watch, while devising a series of booby traps to keep other people from getting in, to alert us if they succeed.
We don’t talk about why we are so keen on keeping them out. What we are afraid they might find if they come in. Sure, I was supposed to be sleeping in the bottom bunk, not with her in the top, but girls sleep in bed together all the time. It isn’t a thing unless it is. And those are not the kinds of things we talk about in Youngsville, North Carolina, in 1996.
We look for “homosexuality” in the back of the Bible and flip to each of the verses listed there. We want to know exactly what is considered sinful, out of curiosity. Is it just sodomy? Older men fucking boys? What about women? We search for the line we shouldn’t cross if we don’t want to spend an eternity in hell, but have trouble finding anything concrete. The women of the bible are painted as passive recipients of male desire, not embodied humans with sexualities of their own. If women don’t have sexuality, then they can’t be homosexual, right? And if not, then where does friendship end and sex begin? Is holding hands OK? Cuddling? Kissing? Grinding? What if we keep our clothes on?
We don’t ask these questions out loud. But we sit closely while we search. I feel heat coming from Jenna’s body, coming from between my legs, and our faces are flushed as if we’d spent all evening on the playground. We can not say the things we are thinking or ask for what we want. If we don’t have a name for it, we can’t be punished, right?
Can you be punished for breaking a rule you didn’t know?
We set up booby traps just in case, just so nobody gets the wrong idea. Just in case we find ourselves doing something wrong, that we don’t know is wrong, but think could be wrong, that we might get in trouble for.
We pop Ghost into the VHS player and climb into bed not long after the pottery wheel scene.
We’ll have plenty of warning if someone tries to open the door. I’ll have time to slink back down into the bottom bunk, time to pretend to be sleeping soundly. In case it happens fast, they’ll be so shocked by the splash of water that they won’t have a chance to see what we’re doing and we’ll have plenty of time to steady ourselves. In case the water balloon isn’t insurance enough, the jacks will have their bare feet jumping, have them forgetting to ask why I’m in bed with Jenna instead of where I belong.
We watch the door out of the corners of our eyes while not talking about doing the things we’re not sure we’re not supposed to do. Our pubic bones crash against each other through damp pajamas. We kiss each other’s chests, searching for breasts that aren’t there. Our mouths meet wide open, not sure yet what to do with our tongues.
I search for a sign that we’re in this together, that we’ll keep each other’s secret, some reassurance that we’ll still be friends tomorrow. Our eyes are open but she won’t look at me.
Something happens in my body. I collapse, bury my face into her neck. The sun rises, pink light pouring in. I hear footsteps down the hall and climb quietly down. •
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Ryan-Ashley Anderson is a conceptual artist and writer from the rural South whose work tends toward autoethnography, often excavating personal narratives to explore ideas of temporality, grief, and dislocation in this particular cultural moment. It can be found at X-R-A-Y, Rejection Letters, and Farewell Transmission, among others. Anderson is currently writing a memoir, acting as EIC at Pool Party, and serves as board secretary for the NYC non-profit, Refuge America.
Website | Bluesky | Instagram
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We spend the evening watching VH1 Pop-Up Videos and reading bible verses before turning on Ghost, which we are definitely not allowed to watch, while devising a series of booby traps to keep other people from getting in, to alert us if they succeed.
We don’t talk about why we are so keen on keeping them out. What we are afraid they might find if they come in. Sure, I was supposed to be sleeping in the bottom bunk, not with her in the top, but girls sleep in bed together all the time. It isn’t a thing unless it is. And those are not the kinds of things we talk about in Youngsville, North Carolina, in 1996.
We look for “homosexuality” in the back of the Bible and flip to each of the verses listed there. We want to know exactly what is considered sinful, out of curiosity. Is it just sodomy? Older men fucking boys? What about women? We search for the line we shouldn’t cross if we don’t want to spend an eternity in hell, but have trouble finding anything concrete. The women of the bible are painted as passive recipients of male desire, not embodied humans with sexualities of their own. If women don’t have sexuality, then they can’t be homosexual, right? And if not, then where does friendship end and sex begin? Is holding hands OK? Cuddling? Kissing? Grinding? What if we keep our clothes on?
We don’t ask these questions out loud. But we sit closely while we search. I feel heat coming from Jenna’s body, coming from between my legs, and our faces are flushed as if we’d spent all evening on the playground. We can not say the things we are thinking or ask for what we want. If we don’t have a name for it, we can’t be punished, right?
Can you be punished for breaking a rule you didn’t know?
We set up booby traps just in case, just so nobody gets the wrong idea. Just in case we find ourselves doing something wrong, that we don’t know is wrong, but think could be wrong, that we might get in trouble for.
We pop Ghost into the VHS player and climb into bed not long after the pottery wheel scene.
We’ll have plenty of warning if someone tries to open the door. I’ll have time to slink back down into the bottom bunk, time to pretend to be sleeping soundly. In case it happens fast, they’ll be so shocked by the splash of water that they won’t have a chance to see what we’re doing and we’ll have plenty of time to steady ourselves. In case the water balloon isn’t insurance enough, the jacks will have their bare feet jumping, have them forgetting to ask why I’m in bed with Jenna instead of where I belong.
We watch the door out of the corners of our eyes while not talking about doing the things we’re not sure we’re not supposed to do. Our pubic bones crash against each other through damp pajamas. We kiss each other’s chests, searching for breasts that aren’t there. Our mouths meet wide open, not sure yet what to do with our tongues.
I search for a sign that we’re in this together, that we’ll keep each other’s secret, some reassurance that we’ll still be friends tomorrow. Our eyes are open but she won’t look at me.
Something happens in my body. I collapse, bury my face into her neck. The sun rises, pink light pouring in. I hear footsteps down the hall and climb quietly down. •
Ryan-Ashley Anderson is a conceptual artist and writer from the rural South whose work tends toward autoethnography, often excavating personal narratives to explore ideas of temporality, grief, and dislocation in this particular cultural moment. It can be found at X-R-A-Y, Rejection Letters, and Farewell Transmission, among others. Anderson is currently writing a memoir, acting as EIC at Pool Party, and serves as board secretary for the NYC non-profit, Refuge America.
Website | Bluesky | Instagram