Taylor’s first girlfriend didn’t work out after they had been together for 3 months. Nothing in the big frame of things, but comparatively eons for the children they were.

All he remembers is chaos leading up to their childish partnership. For the most part, he doesn’t recall much. Needless, as today, he’d only refer to her in some unintelligent word.

In a month, they wanted to be adults. It took 25 minutes for the succession of their first kiss. In every attempt he made to lean towards her, she would shyly duck her head down. She blamed it on the crowded hallway, the loss of family discipline, but even after the hallway had cleared she continued to subtly divert her face elsewhere.

Taylor was not the kind of boy to be taken down lightly. He did not feel rebuffed, rather challenged, and after the fruitless 25 minutes, he took her lips with surprising sureness and force in the brief moment she had lifted her face up. It lasted awhile. Their first kiss was a make out; this all began in grade 8.

Routinely, they began to hang out at her parent’s store front, hiding behind the curtains separating the privacy of the store owners, which was packed with storage material, made comfortable only with a cheap padded beach bench laid flat. There they accompanied each other in the most primitive of ways, kissing through the hours, keeping silent, because in their childhood minds it concealed everything from the mother standing behind the store counter outside. At one point, he brought himself down to his knees and propped her legs atop his shoulders. His mouth inches away from the stretched fabric of her jeans, concealing forbidden female flesh. She didn’t budge; her eyes possibly flickered for a brief moment, and then steadied in their dark calm. He didn’t go further. Alas, she would walk him halfway in the late afternoon, say their goodbyes, and begin again tomorrow.

Gradually, she walked him all the way to his house.

“This is me”, He said one day.

When she didn’t respond, he continued, “You probably thought it was one of those houses right?”, gesturing blatantly at the extravagantly new houses, pointedly the one painted a loud brick red, built across from his row of old fashioned low rise roofs, where the front door opens to an immediate stairway leading downwards, where he slept.

She went ahead and admired his mother’s efforts put into the hanging basket of flowers and planted ones alike around and underneath the single large window looking into the living room.

“That’s my dad; he has his own garden out back.”

In a few months’ time, at the beginning of summer, he invited her to come over and meet his family. She was terribly nervous, yet giddy and completely a juvenile towards his two cats, which were none too friendly to strangers and retreated to their habitual corners. His sister withdrew to her room.

“She gets straight A’s. Then there’s me, the family’s black sheep.”

At length, he left her with his mom in the living room, unable to bring himself to be audience to what they may talk about, and a little reluctant to join. Inwardly, he might have hoped they would bond.

She tried; asked his mother if she enjoyed singing, which was the exact scene he walked into when he finally entered the conversation, and overly complimenting the grand tulips that his father were tending incessantly in the back yard. He hadn’t wanted to meet her.

At the height of summer, her presence was more easily allowed in the household, he might have been right to hope, but instead, they snuck in moments, hours together when the entire family was out. They would enter the door way, put away their sneakers and immediately enter the basement. A dome of coolness in the heat, relaxing and enjoying each other’s company.

On the very first visit, the proposal of entering the realm of real adulthood came forth, she told him how much she wanted to please him, so he propped himself against the edge of the bed and lied down to avoid any awkward eye contact and the looming figure he would otherwise impose. By the time she finally touched his naked flesh without the interruption of his briefs was 2 and a half hour later.

“It’s warm.” She commented.

“Well, of course it is, what’d you think?”

“I don’t know. Somehow, I had always imagined it to be cool.”

As she accustomed herself to the very male presence, it took a little longer than he had expected, he waited uneasily, staring at his blue ceiling. Upon seeing her tentative face he said, “You don’t have to do this you know.”

With which seemed to give her the fire she needed. “No, I want to.”

On the breath of her lips, the tip of her tongue, he shut his eyes, closing out any evidence that he was anywhere as fright out of control than she ever showed; it was ecstatic.

The arousal escalated, until an interruptive text message called her to her phone.

“I’m just going to answer that.”


Repeatedly, it happened several times before he opted to finish himself off. Pushing away her legs from his abdomen, in which she had propped up after lying beside him on the bed, seemingly released from obligation. She watched with fascination as he jerked. He was disappointed and shamed that it did not spurt.

That day also marked the first time he played guitar for her. Settling in his upstairs games room after they had washed their hands, she wrapped her arms around his shoulder and neck, embracing the stony stranger who refused to look forward while he exposed himself musically.

Two times more the same scenes played out, difference being she did finish these times. He didn’t note the hint of contortion in her facial expressions right before she swallowed, to and against her dismay.

“It’s good.”

Late July she told him goodbye. He didn’t understand why, couldn’t even bring himself to bother with any explanation if he had asked. She was crying, and he felt he was all wrong.


*My apologies if any of the content offended anyone.