They say hindsight is 20/20. That's a lie. Hindsight is murky, messy, and obnoxiously obtuse. It's a looking glass of torture that adds more "what ifs" and an equal amount of "if onlys" to any given experience, fooling you with an illusion of retroactive omniscience. And yet, We still lie here more times than We care to admit, staring into the endless blue of half painted bedroom room walls; somewhere between ocean and sky, wondering if We only knew then the things We know now. They also say youth is wasted on the inexperienced. That much is true.
"It started with a kiss." We hate the line. It's too bubbly, too ideal, too hopefully optimistic, too unreal. It's too ... temporary. We don't know where in human history (or maybe just Our culture) romance became this flowery thing. This dainty rainbow of sunrises and smiles; unending torrent of belly laughs, butterflies, and 'morning after' breakfasts. Maybe it's like that for a lucky few, maybe. But, it started with a look. It started with a mutual "oh shit" panic. It started with her rounding the corner of a doorframe not at all deserving of her crossing through it. It started with Us stopping at the top of a handful of steps onto a foyer landing. It started with a locked gaze in an uncomfortable but simultaneously all-too-familiar silence. It started with studying each other's faces for the slightest of tells, daring one another to speak or move first. It started like a duel at twilight hour with neither of us wanting to turn our back to the other.
Even now, We can't tell you if it was 30 minutes or 30 seconds. We can't tell you what she wore aside from a broken-in pair of jeans. We can't tell you if her hair was up or down. We can't tell you what she smelled like, what color her nails were or weren't, or even what time it was. We can tell you three things. One; Her eyes took Us on a journey through time, space, and everything beyond and in-between. Two; the sound of her voice limply whimpering "hi" snatched Us back the the physical present as if she tugged at a leash attached to a collar around Our neck. And three: She was terrified. She was terrified enough for the both of us. Terrified enough to make up for Our system kicking in and dulling Our own terror, the system We knew nothing about at the time that's makes *Us* an Us and not a Me.
We know now she was terrified because that leash and collar were very real yet intangible at the same time. That leash and collar was the sound of her beckoning voice and the unspoken intent of her touch. She was terrified because what stood before her proud, angry, mysterious, and as she probably knew right away...deeply wounded... was a wild dog. A feral, lonely, distrusting, charming, alluring, dangerous, wild dog.
And she was calling it, Us, to come to her, careful not to let a single muscle move lest We interpret it as threat. Just as We noticed, but didn't *know* then that in turn, stood before Us caged bird. A vibrant, scared-to-hope, light in every room she's in despite trying to find corners to hide in, mask wearing, convinced she can't and will never fly, caged bird. Silently trying to tell her it's OK, that We're not going to throw her cage door open, because it already is open. Looking for an invitation inside of it, careful not to move too fast lest she interpret it as a hostile take over...
It wasn't each other's faces they were studying, and they were both looking for an abort button that didn't exist. This ride was one way on, no way off, and it had already started. If this were a cliche story, one of those flowery rainbow romance retellings then We'd stop there. The perfect gotcha hook to make you want to keep reading onto the next chapter or listening to more story past your bed time.
This isn't that. It's not rosy and it's not sunshine and puppies and it's not a love story that starts with cotton candy and a ferriswheel ride. It wasn't even supposed to be a story at all. It was supposed to be a one and done orchestrated by a mutual frenemy with less than stellar intentions. There wasn't supposed to be a first date wasn't supposed to be a date at all. Wasn't supposed to be any silent truths. Wasn't supposed to be any "I love you" let alone "how could you?" We were meant to take this bird for a day outside of her cage. We were supposed to give her pleasure and make her happy and return her to her cage where the world she live in demanded she stay. We were supposed to placate her curiosities and never speak to her again; supposed to provide her one day of worldly freedom in the most carnal of liberations and forget she exists.
Its no wonder our relationship turned out to be a Shakespearean shit show rather than a colorful Disney retelling. We were supposed to be indifferent. Uncaring. And forgotten.
Instead there was an acknowledgement of her condition there was an "Are you hungry??" that sounded much more confident out loud than We felt inside. There was a tentative thigh touch in the car leading to an even more tentative hand holding along the ride. There *was* a first date and it was glorious and mortifying and terrifying and wonderful and beautiful all at the same time. There is no roller coaster in existence that can compare to the thrill of genuine love at first sight. There is no roller coaster in existence that can take you higher or plunge you lower, faster, than the heartbreaks along the way after a genuine love at first sight.
Again, hindsight is not 20/20. We can't stress that enough. For all these grand memories, We don't have hardly a memory of the details of that date. We nod and smile when she recounts "remember how you leaned over and kissed me in the theatre?" But We don't remember leaning over and kissing her in the theatre. We allow Ourself to bask in a warmth of pride when she tells of how We pushed and pulled at the perfect times, completely intuned with when she wanted to be closer to Us and when she needed a second to breathe. But We don't remember that either. We remember, vaguely, a movie. We remember gas station food and gas station ice cream. Sherbert, to be exact. Lime flavor. We remember kneeling beneath her on Our living room floor with her sitting nervously on the couch. But We do not remember how We got there. We don't remember the point A to point B.
The prevailing memory is simply that of her fingers between Our fingers and generally her skin touching Our skin. We remember the complicated feeling that was the gravitational pull of her existence to Ours. Entirely and absolutely suffocating and somehow at the same time the freshest of air and easiest We've ever breathed.
We remember.... the remarkable horror on her face after she lifted herself high enough to slide her jeans down, not because she was an unwilling participant in the events to follow, but because she noticed Us looking at her thighs. At the imperfections of her thighs. She audibly shrieked and her breath caught in her throat as one hand shot to cover herself from Our sight and the other covered her mouth blocking anymore sound from coming from it. We gently, but with serious intent, tugged at the hand failing to actually cover her thighs. She resisted and her other hand left her mouth to help with the effort below. We told her, "It's okay."
"It's not okay," she cried. Actually cried. Tears starting to run down her cheek. She didn't expect Us to care what was down there and the shock of it was "ruining the moment" so to speak. She expected Us to pull her pants down, pull Our pants down, and fuck her like the wild breeding dog We had, still have, a reputation for being. The wild breeding dog she was partially hoping We'd actually turn out to be so she could get off this ride. The wild breeding dog that, honestly, We really were. With every broad, bitch, and bimbo to cross Our path. With the mutual frenemy that foolish believed herself the holder of Our leash. With everyone. Literally everyone. Except her.
And she knew it. She knew it before even We did. Before We knew how tight a hold of Our leash she already had. And that's why it wasn't okay. Because as much as she was scared and embarrassed of her imperfections, as much as she kept trying to tell herself she was a homely damsel at the mercy of a ravishing daring man, she knew the truth. She knew she was Our Queen, metaphorically and metaphysically upon a throne We built for Ourself. And she knew the danger she was in. That We both were in. Because We meant her no harm and she could tell. She knew that We yearned for permission, for trust, and not conquest. But... she was familiar with conquest. She felt a safety in that familiarity. She knew how to manage it. How to compartmentalize it. How to use it as a shield from her deepest emotions. Her life had already taught her the road to hell was paved with good intentions. We were experiencing true good intentions for the first time in all Our life, and We were consumed with needing her to trust Us. Wanting her to trust Us. Wanting her to know that she could fly.
And... she relented. We kissed her hands and rubbed the outside of her legs. We started to pull her pants back up. But she wouldn't move her hands so We could. It was confusing. It was both a permission of sorts and a frozen fear in taking another step forward. We kissed her hands more and more and kissed the parts of her not covered while making eye contact with her every other second. Partially for any sign of protest or desire for Us to stop. For Us to stop treating her like a person and just fuck her already and get it over with. But there was no protest. There weren't any fresh tears and the ones that had fallen already had dried. There was a residing of fear. We could see it. We could feel it. She wasn't just letting Us in. She was inviting it. Permitting it. We lifted her hand once more and she didn't fight it. She was beautiful, all over. Her smile was beautiful. Her eyes were beautiful. Her budding yet squeamish grin was...intoxicating. Her imperfections both above and below, were gorgeous. She, was gorgeous. We felt alive outside of a fight for the first time in all Our years on this earth.
We knew what We wanted to do, even though, We didn't know. Call it intuition, call it divine memory, call it auto pilot, call it whatever you want. But We wanted to tell her We loved her already, the only way We suddenly and clearly knew how to. We looked at her one last time before the hand kisses turned thigh kisses. Before the thigh kisses turned to private kisses. Before the private kisses turned to private french kisses. We loved her. And We were right where We belonged. Where We'll always belong. On our knees, between hers, worshipping her. Begging her to fly. To fly away with Us. To never let go of now much more tangible, despite still metaphysical, leash around Our neck. The leash We allowed her to slip on with the latent double meaning of "It's okay." The leash she now anxiously and feverishly and wielded with absolute authority through a light hand on the back of Our head. Light enough to allow Us to stop....
She knew We wouldn't though. She knew because her invitation had gone from permission to command. She commanded Us to worship her. And she knew We would listen. She knew We would obey.
.... and that's why she was so terrified when she rounded through the corner of that doorframe all too undeserving of her crossing it. She knew and it was all too new. There's no comfort in freedom. Freedom is a responsibility. A responsibility she'd never been afforded. A responsibility she'd resigned herself to never having. A responsibility she'd grown comfortable never having to think about. To her credit, she knew well before We ever did.
All We knew... Is We never wanted that invitation to go away. We never wanted her to go away. We loved convincing her to spread her wings even if only for a little while. Even if through partially carnal means. We loved her. Deeply. Wholly. And and forever in this life and the next.
Hindsight is not 20/20. We can't tell you when We took her home. We can't tell you if We walked her to her door or kissed her goodnight. We can't tell you even at this point if We held hands along the way despite being confident We did. We even.. funny enough, We can't tell you the how and when or even what room we had penetrative sex. We *know* We did. But beyond what We've said here in the details We do recall, everything else is a blur. A blur of new. A blur of fear. A blur of pleasure and emotional highs and unknowns and tunnel visioned focal points like the "oh shit" moment of meeting in the first place or sensation of being on Our knees before her seeing her thighs for the first time, seeing *her* for what would turn out from her end to be for the first time feeling seen.
Maybe she'll tell you about it. Maybe. Hell, maybe she'll tell Us about it. We'd welcome it. She doesn't know this but the only times We get to relive any other details of Our first date, of the day We met, is when she shares them. She's never talked about the sexual part though, or much more beyond the movie and the sherbert. She does mention the couch, gingerly, usually. As if she's recalling something she still quite doesn't understand the why's of. Or maybe as if she's asking for permission to speak on it out loud. Now that We think about it, it's probably the latter.
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