Everything Has a Beginning

She was twenty four, but I guess I was her first. We never had actual sex, you know, the way people define it most of the time. But we did stuff. She was always very modest and calm, and I could not tell if she liked it or not, except those rare times when she gave a moan, or breathed faster, or when I moved up from kissing her neck to her lips and her tongue was cold because her mouth had been open all the time.

The night before she left for six months, she let me know she liked it. Again, she did not let it go anywhere, but she did cling to me, and kiss me, and grind against me a little. If only she did not leave, we could have explored the land of love together, I could have been her guide.

She never came back. She told me over the phone she was staying in Canada. She might visit sometimes.

I saw photos of her with another man. I wondered what he was like to her and what she was like to him. Was I her first? Was he her last? Men always ask questions like that.

Posted by: Paweł Kowaluk