HAPPY GAY PRIDE DAY, CHICAGO!
I remember my first girl crush on a High School friend 2 years my senior. Her last name was Large and she had BEAUTIFUL nurturing boobs to match. I was nearly flat chested.
Constantly, I wondered about her nipples which never peeked through any type of shirt. I mused over the size and shape of her nipple. I wanted to see how all her joints connected and moved.
Her skin was smooth as jar honey. Near her nose splashed a few cinnamon freckles. I pondered if her nipples matched her breast skin as well as the freckles complimented her sculptured nose.
We were typical, shy black teenagers of the 1980’s. Our middle class upbringing dictated that we got dressed in private and went to the toilet with the door closed. So I never got to see how God had sewn her together.
Silly of me to want to embody her perfection. What I really wanted was to be more like her and keep myself at the same time.
Having a motherless, wandering and wounded soul ushered me to look for a cozy place to rest and be reborn.
Somehow (in my mind) that added up to changing our ‘hello’ and ‘see you soon’ smooches to a rapid spit exchange. I dreamed of drinking in her coy, mathematical, mature and steady nature. I fantasized pressing my body so close to hers that my cells would learn the proper way to grow.
In the Spring, I would blossom into a fairy queen able to command a million men with my magic tongue and hour glass essence drained from a mere kiss from her.
Even as a teen I was greedy.
A wonderful friendship was ruined when I confessed my passion one Summer day over the phone.
Little did I understand the refuge that ‘Amanda’ took in our platonic girly activities.
Looking back, I realize that ‘Amanda’ already had enough social problems. Most girls were jealous of her wardrobe and ability to keep so many guy friends. The other girls could manage their lips into a turn up smile but their eyes went cold as the North Pole as they tried to make nice.
She told me that they were all fake.
For 3 years we kept them all at a distance, together we were a couple of junior fag hags until I could not hold my tongue any longer. I spilled my love for her over a course grounded line.
The boat was never to sail.
Silly of me to think that she could ever forgive me for bringing sex into our girl wave.
We were suppose to just be in love with ourselves and our goals. Like doves we had planned to transform the ugly world. Side by side we were going to be the normal ones against all odds we were going to make a difference.
My out burst complicated every detail.
Truth is that only she had new goals, I was already living my dream by being next to her and receiving her faith.
I was a misfit and fugitive of love, her attention was fertile soil in a the badlands of my world in which I doubted could ever change.
It was her belief that hard work eventually manifested change. I went along with keeping up appearances but I didn’t really believe that one more doctor could make a difference. Nor was I convinced that any of my Art would ever hang in a museum.
Her simple consistancy is what gave me hope. Every two weeks she told me when it was going to be time to wash my hair. I surrendered to her bathroom basin. Her slender fingers patiently and effortlessly scratched my scalp. Without insult or complaint, she shampooed combed through all the nappy tangles.
She was a welcomed distraction from the weight of the world on my shoulders that I decided to translate with writing and painting.
I wanted to paint it out, sing it out, or write it all down. Back then I cried about everything and only she could dress me up and convince me that it really wasn’t as bad as it seemed…
until that day that I confessed that I needed more from her.
My confession that I wanted to see and smell her breast must have been very lewd to her.
When I heard the dial tone, I knew that I was on my way to being motherless again.
Readers what was your first same sex experience like? Comments are encouraged!