I remember how he tastes, the unexpected softness of his lips and the scent of his mouth. And even though it’s been years, I remember the feeling of my hand slipping down his already unbuttoned pants to feel the hardened contents. And I remember thinking, this thing is softer than I expected, and being in awe of how the outer skin moved as if disconnected from the inner hardened organ. I remember awkward whispers and hopeful encouragements as I ran my curious hands over his excited body, eager to explore, refusing to be explored myself. And I remember my heart stopping, hearing his father’s voice, and the yanking, a little too hard, of my hand out of his pants and on to the bed besides me. And I remember everything changing in that moment and I remember being far too ecstatic for a twelve year old to be losing my innocence. And, sixteen years later, staring at his picture for the first time in years, I remember the pain of a best friend’s rejection and the consequences of a simple touch. I remember the moment that hardened my heart and made me the cautious lover I am today. I remember it all as I stare at his picture. And I smile.

This was originally posted on my blog, QueerieBradshaw.com, but it felt like something to share with the SheWrites.com community, so I posted it here as well.