lesson

Nervous energy, a childhood’s couch. No one else home, we find ourselves alone.

The thrill of danger heightens the heat of each touch, the whisper of every breath. Gasping air, like bellows fan a flame, tickles my neck. Pinpricks tiptoe down my spine with a feather-light touch, the delicate intricacy of a spider’s legs. Young and in love, craving touch, brimming with a ravenous emptiness needing to be filled.

Kiss and touch, nothing’s enough. The question posed once more, you arrive at diligent search’s end: yes.

Permission granted, jeans fall to the floor.

Long ago impure, yet still so unsure. The act the same, yet the moment as different as could be; questions swim in endless circles, my mind filled with these great pools of uncertainty as time slows like flowing molasses, my senses overwhelmed with every detail:

Where is the stench of alcohol and sweat to shock and gag me, or the slippery chill of

musty polyester to drown me, smother me, hide me away? Where is the thunderous

boom of my racing heart to deafen me, or the tunnel vision of panic to blind me?

Why does my body melt into yours, warmed by connection, dripping with pleasure?

Why am I unafraid?

Why do you kiss me, caress me, gently whisper I love you, as the curtain falls? As this moment pops like a bubble and the full scene comes back into focus with each jagged breath, I’m faced with the unexpected: your face resting contentedly on my chest, a soft smile playing at your lips, a warm tenderness filling your eyes. No rush or great hurry, no anxiety or fear to sully this sacred moment. My first lesson in love comes when you slip your hand into mine.