Sex

"Well dancers writhed and squirmed and then
they came apart, and then a’ writhed again
like squirming flies upon a pin
in the heat and in the din
in the heat and in the din"

I remember, very distinctly, the year I became aware of women. Girls, rather. Women were a large, deflated bunch of creases with patterns in their skin and large feet. They had nothing in common with my twelve year old body. Now, girls were a different story. Before I knew better, I had a rather non-sexual attraction to them. It was, more or less, an attraction to the mystery of them. Their bodies differed from my own, as far as I was tought, in only one place. Hair could be any length, really, and at that age breasts weren’t nessicarily a sure thing. It was the concept of duality that drew me, the childhood notion that somehow I was only half an entity until I coupled with the other.

The first woman that ever took me into her was significantly older than I was, at the time… for as we know, the significance of age in reguards to coupling fades as we grow…and by into, I certainly don’t mean intercourse, just a simple invitation extended to my young hands and mouth to explore the places I had long been circling in my dreams.

Like the kind, soft hearted prostitute from a classic western novel, she was aptly named; Silky. What I remember of her is little. She was 14, and miles smarter than I. Her body was slender, with ivory skin and freckles on her kind face. She was significantly taller, being two years my senior at that age… and she had silk pajamas back home, thus the nick name… her real name, I’ll never remember. I met her at summer camp, in the vast clean splendor of Ontario, Canada. We lay together privately on a flat bed of sheer rock, tilted slightly towards the water, on a smoky evening. My senses were muffled by warmth and excitement, and my memory has suffered because of it. I only see it now as a dark churning liquid; a moment as long as a day, but as short as the twilight.

Prior to touching her I had touched only boys, and boy’s skin bristles.. the lines of their muscles have a numb unresponsive stubbornness, and the movements they make are coarse and efficient. We had danced that night, casually, as Silky was always just a friend, a pal, ‘one of the boys,’ as it were… truth be told, I had my young eyes set on several other girls, who were directly my age. One of which was actually calling herself my girlfriend, though we had done little more than sit next to one another at functions. But as Silky and I were laying there discussing matters of dire importance, or so I remember, she took my hand with all of a woman’s deliberation, and brought it to the nape of her neck, above her chest… and she moved against it. My senses were blown. My expectations were shattered; exceeded; fire bombed. It was like dying of thirst, asking for just a small glass of water, and being given a water tower. The skin was soft, and the muscles softer. The circular movement of her body was the direct contradiction of efficiency, and I trembled… and trembled… and trembled. Her breasts did not feel as though they were full of water, as I had thought, but rather air.. and her lips were so soft and slippery, I could barely feel them against my mouth. She pulled me on to her, and squirmed beneath me like water; like life itself.