As Told By...

The first time he touched me, I knew I had fallen. So fast, so deep, that I could never claw my way up again.

I was an innocent fifteen, and we lay on the bed, wasting the minutes of the day watching endless reruns of old shows now forgotten. He tentatively slid his hand into mine, and squeezed gently. I chuckled, glancing at him briefly. I didn’t pull my hand away - nor did he. We lay there, two kids, watching. Touching.

I felt something new - something aching, pleasurable. I didn’t know the distinction then - being a closeted child, I simply remembered the painful embarrassment of being "asked out" by chubby boys, the disgust I tried to hide when saying "no" as politely as I could manage.

This was different.

My heart raced to speak, to say the things that my mind could not articulate. I could feel - what, I couldn’t understand.

We didn’t touch again. My flight was scheduled to leave in a few days, and I had grown closer to him - as friends, I believed, as someone I could trust in. Confide in. We’d sneak off during hide and seek, to gossip about our families, our dreams. We’d never understood each other so clearly - never seen how much we could relate.

It was a dark night, nearly pitch black. The moon had hidden under blankets of clouds, and kids raced around the yard, tripping over rocks and squealing in pain. We escaped to our usual spot, the stony benches comforting and private. There was something about our relationship that made me uncomfortable - I asked myself constantly why I felt most at ease with him when in the dark, alone by ourselves? Was it the only time I could truly be myself, or was I trying to hide something from him? Our families?

All I knew was that when darkness enveloped us, I felt audacious. I could slide closer to his side, and perhaps rest my head against his shoulder. I could talk about what was dearest to my heart, and not feel afraid that the truth would come out with the morning sun. He slid his hand back in mine, and gripped it tightly, bringing it to his lips. He kissed the back of my palm, my hands cold from the stone. He said he loved me - that he’d always love me. I told him I would too. It didn’t matter what it meant - love is something all encompassing, and I knew that somehow, I would love him forever. Perhaps not in the way he understood, the way I wanted, but it would be there. For eternity.

The next day we played a goodbye game of pool. He never left my side, and once snuck his arms around my waist, and buried his face in my hair, my neck. I could not move. Was this what friends did? I wondered. I quashed the thought. Fuck that. I felt amazing. His lips - only once - trailing over the skin of my neck made me tremble. I was a pile of jelly. I could not move.

Hours remained before my flight, and I sat by the pool table, alone. Thinking about him, about us. About when we would see each other again, about who we were apart, who we were together.

He appeared all of a sudden, carrying something wrapped in tissue. He looked worried, but gave me the present nonetheless. I’m sorry that it’s so small – he said. I didn’t have much time to shop for something. It was a delicate little watch. I smiled. All I could think of was that even if it had been a box of matches, I’d still kiss them every night before going to bed.

He hugged me, held my hands tightly, and said he was going to miss me. I told him the same.

* * *

I got home. I felt confused - had I left a very good friend? Was this ache in my chest from missing a confidant? Or was it something more? I couldn’t sleep for weeks, until finally the watch broke and I tucked it away in my jewel chest.

I would open it from time to time, and the feeling of his lips on my neck would come back. I would close the chest quickly.

Two years passed. I went back to school, I went back to work. Life resumed its normal order. And I forgot.

* * *

There we lay again. Two fools pretending not to remember. Not to care. Two weeks before my departure home once more.

Some old cartoon was playing, my sister giggling madly at the antics onscreen.

He hadn't touched me since I'd arrived. He hadn't mentioned anything about us - about what we'd been together the last time I was there. He seemed to avoid me, disappearing whenever I would come down for lunch, stating some excuse or other on why he couldn't stay over that night.

I was miffed. And utterly confused. Weren't we friends? Why couldn't we be that once again? There was nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide from. But he didn't want me, and I pretended that all was well with the world.

Then his fingers touched mine.

My heart flew beyond my chest, touching the rafters in frantic anticipation. My hand didn't move. His hand didn't move.

Five minutes later we lay there, hands intertwined, as Tom smacked Jerry on the head with a frying pan.

My sister ran downstairs for a snack, leaving us. Alone. Very alone.

I looked over at his dark-eyed face, willing him to reveal what he was thinking.

Wish granted.

Without any warning, any sign, he wrapped one of his arms around my waist and pulled me towards him, planting his lips firmly on mine.

It was... quite revolting.

The man did not know how to kiss. Having only been kissed twice before, I wasn't a master, but I did not like this feeling at all. Too much saliva, too much tongue.

He pulled away, nestling his head into my hair.

God, I thought you'd forgotten about us, he whispered, spreading kisses like fire down my neck.

I thought you had. Screaming curses inside at making me wait so long.

I love you.

The magic words. Not so magical to me - I'd always loved him. He was a part of my life, my family. All I had to do now was adjust myself to the fact that he meant those words differently.

I love you. I responded, unsure of whether my words were truthful or not.

He kissed me once more, holding me so close I was afraid to breathe.

Footsteps on the stairs.

Immediate separation.

She was back. And we were back. Lying on the bed like fools, each on our own side, remembering last time, anticipating the future. Trying to figure out if kisses got better as time went on.

* * *

His tongue brushed against my teeth, his hands cupping my virgin bum and pushing me into him.

These stolen moments were awkward for me - alternating between endless nibbles, licks, kisses... and keeping an eye open for intruders.

I desperately wanted him with me forever, wanted his lips on my neck, and when he had to leave each night, I ached everywhere, curling up into my pillow and letting my thoughts fly in every which direction.

Sometimes he wouldn't appear for a day or two, and I would literally go mad, unable to eat, to sleep, breathing only to hear a word about him, about his soon return. When I saw his dark head appear at the end of the driveway, my heart would shatter into a million pieces, and I would have to sit down and breathe deeply to keep myself from running straight into his waiting body.

Always interruptions, always interruptions. We couldn't be alone for longer than 4 or 5 minutes, and the pain increased with each time apart. I couldn't understand why I felt so sick all the time - emotionally, physically. When I saw him after a long absence, I'd have to run to the bathroom because my relief was so nauseating. I knew he was a horrible kisser, but catching a whiff of his amazing scent, feeling his soft skin caressing mine, was more than heaven for me.

Was this love? I thought. This pain, this pleasure, that keeps me from being sane? If so, I want no part of it. I want to eat in peace. I want to breathe normally. But I can't give him up.

We'd whisper to each other, Just give us fifteen minutes alone... just fifteen minutes..., neither of us understanding the extent of what our bodies would demand if we had been alone that long.

Finally it was the night of my departure. I felt like crying all the pouring water of Foz do Iguacu. My parents were busy with saying goodbye to friends and family, and I rushed upstairs to spend my last few minutes with him alone.

His actions seemed desperate - he kissed me harder than he'd ever had before, his hands clinging strongly to my arms, my waist, my legs. He trailed kisses down my neck and brought a hand up to cup my breasts. He asked for approval, I gave it, and he pulled down my shirt, taking a dark nipple into his mouth and licking ever so softly. I nearly orgasmed, knowing that my soaking panties would have to be changed immediately.

He whispered that he'd never done this with a girl before - I said I believed him, wondering inside whether he was really telling me the truth. At that point, it didn't matter to me - all that mattered were his hands cupping my breasts, his teeth nipping at my sensitive skin, and the exhilarating way my neck felt after being touched by his lips.

Our episode lasted only a few minutes, then my mother yelled from downstairs that the car was packed and we had to go. I kissed him hard, not wanting to let go of his warm, soothing body. He nearly cried when I said goodbye.

We promised to keep in touch.

* * *

All the way home I was silent. I could not speak. I was afraid that if I said anything, I would scream at the world for separating me from the one person that had awakened me to the brilliant sensations that clouded my body, my mind.

* * *

We spent seven days with an aunt before arriving home.

Seven days of torture.

One hundred sixty eight hours of thinking how I missed feeling our skin together.

How I could not tell anyone.

How no one could ever understand.

* * *

Finally home. I ran to my computer.

Seven messages.

Seven long, loving messages.

Assuring me of his love, of his devotion, of the way he missed nestling his chin into my neck, nipping softly at my ear.

I nearly swooned. I turned blood red and spent the next 20 minutes in the bathroom wetting my face with cold water and breathing deeply.

* * *

Four months later, it was over.

I had ended it.

The stress of thinking of us, the future, our families, had gotten to me, and I had quit.

I had taken the easy way out.

I knew it was never going to work at the beginning - I had hoped it would have finality when it was done, but it never did.

I'm not sure if he ever understood why I finally said enough is enough, and for the following months, I would have given a limb to explain, to console him.

My friends told me he was absolutely devastated. Little details they hoped would make me feel better. I felt worse.

But despite everything, I couldn't stop thinking of him.

Even now, he haunts my dreams, smoothing my hair back and teasing my mouth with his amazing tongue. Yes, he can kiss perfectly in my dreams.

I understand I've built him up to be the ultimate lover - I know he will never be able to reach the heights I've created for him, but I'm not sure I care.

I can't say I wouldn't start something new with him if I had the chance. All I can say is that I wouldn't destroy those days we spent together under the clouds. He's given me enough sexual frustration to last me all eternity - he's given me the ideal for the perfect man, and I'm grateful for that.

And at night, when I lay curled around my lover, my mind drifts to another time and place, where every fiber of my being felt ablaze, charring my very soul. And I remember every word, as told by my first love.