confessions · hmmm

Legs

Drinks. Sitting. Our legs were touching slightly more than normal, which I guess means “we’re going to fuck” in this adult era

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confessions

He almost moved across the country

He almost moved across the country to take a job in California. We never discussed what would happen if he moved across the country. I don’t think we’re the type of couple who would do long distance well.

At first I thought it was dishonest that we never discussed it, that we could be broken up right now yet we continue going on as if that isn’t so. I thought it was dishonest at first, but then I remembered the randomness of faith and life and chance. Maybe moving or not moving and dating or not dating and meeting or not meeting aren’t any less random, anyway.

confessions · penis

Phone sex

I split my hymen at 13 having phone sex with a lipgloss. Nobody knows that. I paused at the sight of the fresh, red blood, knowing what it represented, knowing what I lost. Embarrassed, I tried to go on talking, to not let on to what had happened, to how I’d changed, undesirably. I stared at the skinny long, tube: a L’Oréal in a brownish pink shade I didn’t like, with a thick, gold rib where the cap met the tube. It wasn’t the first time I’d used it.

confessions

Charm of my life

It must have been a book I read, around age 12 or 13, in which a necklace charm became a focal point for adoration, sparkling in the sun, when the story’s heartthrob glanced at the story’s sexy, confident protagonist. Throughout the book, a constant in an ever moving montage of the protagonist’s best moments, game-winning soccer goals, aced math tests, and movie outings with a giggling group of friends. That necklace was always there, always glistening around her neck. I think it was a thin, corny chapter book, designed to teach the reader SAT words in a fun context.

I adopted the bumble bee as my charm. I selected one smithed in rose gold to balance the yellow hues in my olive skin. I resolved to wear it every day until it became my signature, until the charm became a focal point for a charming admirer. Then I could move on to other necklaces.

I waited years and years, my neck locked in a tall castle tower of my own making, the clasp to unlock it gathering dust.

One day, he asked me about the necklace. He asked and received my practiced and prepared response; I’d told the story many times before about how “miel,” the Spanish for honey, shares a common etymology with Melissa, Greek for honey bee. It went swimmingly; his face was the picture of love: slowly settling into a warm expression, like rich, European butter spread over steaming toast, finding its place in the air bubbles and crevices to lie itself down and rest; the moment gloriously checking an item off my fate-list. All I ever wanted was a response like that.