I remember the first boy that leaned across my bed and kissed me. The night had been spent passing a hookah pipe among friends, and he had held my hand on the car ride home. I was dizzy. Dizzy with distraction, dizzy with the smokey haze that had filled my brain. His hair was long, and for that semester his facebook profile picture showcased the pretty face and devil may care charm he wore each day. His lips were soft, and slightly damp. Mine were dry and my bottom lip slightly swollen from the biting I did while in the back seat nervously glancing from our entwined hands to the two people in the from of the beat up old subaru we were in.
He tucked me in, pulled the covers around my sleepy but aware form. Back then I new not of seduction, I still don’t. I changed from the ill-fitting jeans and sweater into a pair of ragged and worn sweats. A beat up basketball jersey. He wore vintage finds. He wore handkerchiefs to hold back his thick hair.