Forgotten First by Scott Edward Anderson

I don’t even remember her name.
Is that terrible or beautiful?
I don’t know.
She was older than me, maybe four years.
I wasn’t her first.
The way she took my hand
and ran it along her breasts,
as she brushed my hair
with her fingers, calmed me down.
She was gentle, even loving.
And when she saw or felt my jeans
she was clearly pleased.
When my zipper stuck,
she was careful even with that.
Over as quickly
as she touched me with her lips.
She smiled, wiped her chin,
said, “It’s okay,
it happens the first time,”
that I’d learn control.
We could practice, she said,
holding back, if I’d like.
She kissed me on the lips;
hers tasted of salt.
I didn’t feel dirty.
She made me feel whole.
You’re such a man, she said,
tousling my hair.
I never saw her again.
We moved 400 miles away,
where I would celebrate
my 12th birthday come fall.

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