The first time I had sex with a girl, we did it in a closet. She had a huge walk-in closet with a bed in it, and she would sit on that bed, light candles, and draw and write on the walls. It was like being inside her soul.
She painted and drew and the things she put on those walls were beautiful and honest and every reason I loved her. Because I loved her. And I knew I loved her, and at 6 a.
So that night, under the guise that we were just friends from school, we went up to her room and shut and locked the door. We sat next to each other, and giggled. I told her I had never done this before. Because none of that matters when you want to love someone for more than just their body.
So we listed how we were going to do this. We would kiss first, and then we outlined the next steps and how we would do them one at a time and then we would stop and talk about it and make sure we still wanted to do it or go to the next step and if at any point one of us wanted to stop, that was it, we would stop.
Girls were what I really wanted. And when something ever matters to me, I am usually perplexed and terrified and cowardly and confused.