My first lover

My First Lover

Found a picture
of my first lover in between the sheets
of a book I’d boxed up and put in storage
years ago:
thick, violet-glossed pillow lips,
coarse, black hair that smelled like tar,
full, round hips, womanly and aggressive,
still coloring my feminine ideal.

I remember
the glisten and smell of her
on my fingers when I reached down her sweatpants
outside the girls’ locker room after track practice.

I remember
feeling embarrassed
at my own lasciviousness when I saw her
minutes later in the weight room,
having just shared an intense, sexual moment.

She smiled coyly at me from across the room.
I looked away and did another set of bench press,
not yet knowing the blind,
testosterone-addled,
madness that had come over me.

I was fifteen,
lusty and bold
and
craven
and paralyzed.

She was older, a senior,
and willing
and predatorial.
She wrote me a note the next day,
telling me how much she loved what I did
and how badly she wanted me.

I was scared.
It took me months to want to see her again,
for the cycle of teenage lust to propel me into action.
Only this time,
when she came to me,
I did not hesitate.