I went crazy on a question on myspace, thought I might share for you non-myspacer's
This won't be about my first kiss, not even do I think the moment that follows was my first real kiss... But this fall night I remember vividly.
Her name was Kim. I haven't forgotten her for many reasons: The soft, pale skin with adorable little freckles on her nose. The youthful, shy giggle that is just so sexy to a 16 year old guy. She often wore sweaters, for the time of year and I'd imagine her comfort. I am pretty sure, I am the only person I know who saw her without one on and just a shirt instead.
And of course I did carve the girl's name into my arm... I blame Jason Till, the marilyn manson freak friend I had. Bad influence... I wonder if he still eats glass?
I guess I was sixteen, but I know she was younger, turning 14 perhaps. The age question floated around the whole thing, so maybe it was even more of a gap.
My vivid memories come from her couch, probably still sitting in her parents living room. Unless there were spy cameras everywhere, or listening devices, her parents were lax enough to pretty much leave us to ourselves. They knew what was up. They knew I was a guy their young daughter was interested in. They respected me though, because I did what my father taught me: he said "shake that father's hand like you wanna crush it, and keep respecting eye contact."
But I'm sure they also knew, my intentions for their daughter were not quite what I jovially put on.
I don't know if it was an hour or three, but I remember her thin cold fingers finding great warmth in mine, and the connection between our eyes, as we softly moved in. She had wild hair. Thick brunette lockes that were stiff if she moved a little, but still could fall over your shoulder or brush against your face with a certain characteristic flow.
Her lips were like soft velvet, and the sweet soft caress of them forced the assumption that her tongue would be the same. This deception made my desire wild when she stuck her tongue down my throat, and danced the wild dance of a soft but firm tango. And so often in an embrace, she would fall into me, almost folding into my open arms.
I remember her desire railing beyond my expectations. I remember, teasing her with small caresses or tender gestures, to the moment she couldn't stand anything short of attacking me with a force of desire that swept across the couch, from the first moment we sat on it together. She was mine in that moment, and she wanted anything I wanted. She just knew she wanted me.
I teased her above her clothes at most, running my young, unsure, but somehow steadied fingers across the lines of divide where her sweet, soft but perky breasts bloomed out of her innocent and pure little body; willing to writhe with a blush any way I chose to guide her.
Somehow I think I came to believe that as we got closer in the few weeks to follow, I had to pull out in fear that I was coming too close to violating that young innocent beauty. I lifted her shirt a few times, but always left the bra in place. Squeezed, caressed, and prodded almost every pore of that skin, without ever touching skin... save for her stomach, her face and neck.
For some reason, I did that often when I was young. I broke her heart like many girls I met. I blame Catholic school and skewed values.
Her name was Kim. I haven't forgotten her for many reasons: The soft, pale skin with adorable little freckles on her nose. The youthful, shy giggle that is just so sexy to a 16 year old guy. She often wore sweaters, for the time of year and I'd imagine her comfort. I am pretty sure, I am the only person I know who saw her without one on and just a shirt instead.
And of course I did carve the girl's name into my arm... I blame Jason Till, the marilyn manson freak friend I had. Bad influence... I wonder if he still eats glass?
I guess I was sixteen, but I know she was younger, turning 14 perhaps. The age question floated around the whole thing, so maybe it was even more of a gap.
My vivid memories come from her couch, probably still sitting in her parents living room. Unless there were spy cameras everywhere, or listening devices, her parents were lax enough to pretty much leave us to ourselves. They knew what was up. They knew I was a guy their young daughter was interested in. They respected me though, because I did what my father taught me: he said "shake that father's hand like you wanna crush it, and keep respecting eye contact."
But I'm sure they also knew, my intentions for their daughter were not quite what I jovially put on.
I don't know if it was an hour or three, but I remember her thin cold fingers finding great warmth in mine, and the connection between our eyes, as we softly moved in. She had wild hair. Thick brunette lockes that were stiff if she moved a little, but still could fall over your shoulder or brush against your face with a certain characteristic flow.
Her lips were like soft velvet, and the sweet soft caress of them forced the assumption that her tongue would be the same. This deception made my desire wild when she stuck her tongue down my throat, and danced the wild dance of a soft but firm tango. And so often in an embrace, she would fall into me, almost folding into my open arms.
I remember her desire railing beyond my expectations. I remember, teasing her with small caresses or tender gestures, to the moment she couldn't stand anything short of attacking me with a force of desire that swept across the couch, from the first moment we sat on it together. She was mine in that moment, and she wanted anything I wanted. She just knew she wanted me.
I teased her above her clothes at most, running my young, unsure, but somehow steadied fingers across the lines of divide where her sweet, soft but perky breasts bloomed out of her innocent and pure little body; willing to writhe with a blush any way I chose to guide her.
Somehow I think I came to believe that as we got closer in the few weeks to follow, I had to pull out in fear that I was coming too close to violating that young innocent beauty. I lifted her shirt a few times, but always left the bra in place. Squeezed, caressed, and prodded almost every pore of that skin, without ever touching skin... save for her stomach, her face and neck.
For some reason, I did that often when I was young. I broke her heart like many girls I met. I blame Catholic school and skewed values.