It was the first time I had sex because I wanted to. The first time since I was six. You can dwell on that some other time, but right now stay with me in this memory.
He lifted me from the couch and my skirt lay out exactly how I hoped it might. You know if this was going to occur, not that I had given it much thought really, but at least now I knew. The skirt worked! It was long and pleated, a million different colors, completely hippie like Stevie Nicks. It was my step mother’s skirt and she’d never know anyway. She would be out with my father for the night and HE was coming over to watch Shakespeare on PBS. I swear to god, that was my date night as a teenage girl.
I was light, somewhere around ninety pounds and he was much taller than me and dark. He had a full beard and long rebellious hair. But his eyes, his eyes were so blue. I would get lost in those eyes of his. He was the ocean on a summer’s day…mayday! mayday!
There were many a day I was lost at sea.
But seriously he picked me up like I weighed nothing and I hate to be cliche, but I felt like a feather in his arms. He walked down the hall towards my bedroom, which was also towards my fathers room, full of guns and knives. The thrill of the boldness of his passion or even his simple lust was an instant turn on. I wanted whatever was about to happen. And then he laid me down, just so… on my bed and he stopped to look at me, really look at me. He looked me directly in the eyes and I fell. I fell. I fell so in love with that feeling.
He whispered poetry when we were done.
I say “we” because it was also my first time…you know.
It was my first time deciding who I let inside my body.
I decided that was the moment I would lose my virginity. I would say he was the one. I think he wrote me a letter and I vaguely remember a poem about the way his name sounded falling from my lips like leaves in autumn…or something like that and it was the first time I had ever been compared to anything beautiful and I couldn’t help but feel a little sad.
He was the first person who ever saw me. Just me being me and he whispered poetry on my neck. It doesn’t get much more romantic than that. I was in high school. Still so full of hope and a desperate need for love.
So whoah…right?!? that’s pretty fucking deep and I’m just sitting here with tears in my eyes thinking about that naive dumb blonde believing the world would be full of men who wanted to leave art whispered goosebumps across the surface of my skin. I was never treated so delicately again.
The funniest thing is I was meditating holding the crystal ball he gave me back in 1990. It was the only time someone had given me a gift not out of obligation but out of desire. He just wanted me to have it to remember him by and I did.
I did, for all these years, through everything I’ve been through that crystal ball has not left me. Twenty nine years, longer than both my children have been alive. What I wouldn’t give to have those poems back…or that naive girl who believed that every man would be pleased to measure up to your memory. What lessons I have learned.
I attribute much of who I am to that small gesture so many years ago…you planted a seed. A seed buried and protected so deep you weren’t sure if I would make it.
Okay…. maybe I romanticized that last part but that little seed held fast for almost thirty years before it finally started to grow and it did take hold.
It did take hold.
I’m still here after all that…after all this time…I’m still here with my little crystal ball.