Less Than a Week Shy of Twenty-Three
I wasn’t looking for him; he wasn’t looking for me.
He was searching for a lay,
and as for me?
Any distraction would do,
as long as I could ignore
my ancient professor of psychology.
He said hello, and
behind the façade of taking notes,
I responded in kind.
And for the next two hours
I picked his brain
and he picked mine.
He was slick, that much was plain,
with a confidence
too bold to feign,
and although I wasn’t one
much for arrogance,
instinct insisted I take the chance.
So a few nights later
in the middle of December
I walked into a bar.
There he sat,
in hoodie and hat,
loud and proud and ready to holler
as the Bears beat the Saints
under a shower of snowflakes
in New Orleans.
The following week passed in a blur,
and the bleak chill
failed to wilt
the blossoming heat
that quickly peaked and chased away
my meekness.
On a fated Friday eight days hence
we took a drive with bated breath
up the river’s side.
On the opposite shore
of Mark Twain’s door
we parked before a building of brick
and there he introduced me
to his younger sis.
We sat and chatted the morning away
with John Wayne standing guard;
a lover of the written word,
she was a bard, like me,
and all in all we hit it off
and got along quite splendidly.
Noon slipped past
and duty called
and when she went to work
he and I
said goodbye
and decided on an afternoon nap.
So we laid in the bed of a friend,
snuggled and huddled
in close.
His fingers roved,
letting skin meet skin
and I didn’t move away.
Hesitation failed to show;
modesty gave in.
We nuzzled and necked.
I never thought to say no
as we slowly got undressed.
Lying there,
with breasts exposed,
I knew this was a thing
I was not
supposed to do.
But though I searched,
I found no guilt,
no shame,
nothing negative to name,
and so I chose
to enter the world of sexuality
less than a week shy
of twenty-three.
Winter melted into spring,
then gave way to summer’s heat.
And all the while
I grew and morphed
into a stranger
I was proud to meet.
The pleasures of the flesh
were a wonder to discover,
but he was so much
more to me
than a strong and steady lover;
he opened my mind
to thoughts that were my own.
Forced me to acknowledge
the things
I could no longer condone.
If I should consider
a deeper point of view
would I still agree
with the ones who came before me?
Or would I come to discover
a whole new identity?
Because of him
I realized
life isn’t always strictly
black and white;
and shades of grey
affect degrees of
wrong and right.
I wasn’t who I’d been raised to be.
I was someone else,
and he introduced her to me.
Eight years later,
he still sleeps
beside me in our bed.
Discussions still run rampant.
The sex is still fantastic.
And he swears I give the best head
he’s ever had.