Thursday, 17 November 2011


I remember the first time I touched my boyfriend’s cock, he wasn’t even my boyfriend back then. I think we were thirteen. There was no alcohol, at least it seemed like a stupid idea until we turned fourteen and actually shared a bottle. Cigarettes were out of question along with drugs as we still believed them to be wrong even if it was rumored that someone from our friends had tried it.

Then we’d see people touch each other, but we were the first ones among ourselves.

You had brushed me too, softly, sticking your finger where the wetness came from.

I have no idea how we hadn’t kissed then, my hand brushing the tip of your cock, we had both been wet and thirteen.

Afterwards, as we had been playing some game on the Playstation, maybe it was Lego Star Wars, maybe Soul Calibur, maybe something else. I don’t know, I don’t remember and I told you that I had touched a cock before my first kiss, you had high-fived me.

I still wonder how we held then.

How our parents would still let us stay over at each other’s, maybe because we had acted as we still believed guys and girls to have rabies, maybe that’s why our lips didn’t touch and for some reason your cock or my clit didn’t seem as disgusting as it had been yours, but I still feel amazed as we had undressed and just stared at each other’s bodies.

I still wonder how you dragged that condom around.

You shrugged, saying that we agreed on doing condom balloons one day and we had forgotten, maybe that’s why they had a weird rainbow colouring.

Maybe that’s why we both laughed, as we tried putting it on, kissing.

Then the world was fake, we still talked the same, we still bought the rainbow condoms, scared to mention anything and then we’d blow a balloon out of it, I would, since you freaked on your come, even if we kissed afterwards.

I remember I wondered if I’d get pregnant, I didn’t, we just shrugged, eating cooked rice with chopsticks for the fuck of it.

You had tried your come anyway, I did as well. It mixes with your spit and it doesn’t matter how it tastes like really.

The point would be that it’s you really, and not the rainbow condoms you’d hang on my birthday even after I got the pill years later and kids would ask why the fuck were the balloons oily unlike the ones in the rooms we’d hang when we’d be bored, but then were we bored, as we’d share the same tea mug?

More like we always felt like doing something up to the point that we painted clothes on our naked bodies on Halloween and sat like that watching television.


The thing is, that above would be considered boring, because there is no struggle.

When in reality, that’s if we could stash our honor, we’d read and create forever.

Joined the taken army a long while ago, thank you.

Dance, Dance, Dance, We Will Not Be Moved By It

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