The First Time

The first time I had sex with a girl there was 180 proof vodka, three other womyn in the room and a boyfriend that stormed out the door. Hir boyfriend. My door. She’d leaned over him to kiss my neck. A neck that hadn’t been kissed in months, years really if we’re only counting the times it was done right.

She leaned farther and found my lips. Lips that had grown accustomed to being dry or conciliatory. Lips that had lost their pleasure long ago in a dark room with a best friend turned harsh before them. There was no moisture after that.

I sat stiff, uncertain, as she stretched for me. And then she was there, on my lap. My hand wound through hir curls, the other holding firmly the small of hir back. She was there – like she had always been – like maybe she always would be.

A door slammed and he was gone. And I was glad. And she was undone. I laid hir down, soft, sure, certain. Hands fumbled around us. Messy, drunk, frantic. Pausing only occasionally to stare at our stillness, our intention. Like when my nipples stroked hir stomach as hir breath became steam and moans and sex and yes. Or the sweet resurrection of my tongue as it found hir clit and hir back arched, became my steeple, and I followed. I followed the wet, the slick scent of hir, and it brought me back.