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There was the first time I gave myself to someone—on the old Chippendale couch, its imperfect upholstery hidden under an old floral bed sheet, with an imperfect young man exploring my body in ways I only welcomed from myself until then.

But before that, there was the time I lost my virginity.

I was too young to understand his touch, his misguided affections. He had me lay down in the bed he shared with my mother, slowly pulled my Lambchop panties down to my mosquito-bitten ankles.

Then he slipped the pink floral nightgown up to my skinny, suntanned shoulders—my flat chest devoid of sexuality exposed to his hungry eyes.

I remember the way the pillows smelled like laundry detergent. I remember staring at the ceiling and thinking about that time we went to the zoo and he bought me Roman candy, and how my mom let me eat an entire stick of the strawberry flavored one. My mind wandered so much that, when I recollect my first moments of intimacy, the memory plays out in my head like a dream—like I'm standing in the room watching it all happen to me.

He never kissed me, only pushed my scabby knees apart and whispered the first sweet nothing that ever penetrated my ears—

Don't tell your momma about this...

And I didn't. Not for a long time.