h2>Dating : Dedicated
Her first whimpers are dedicated to the girl who kissed her eagerly, sweetly, but discreetly underneath her family’s grand piano. Kisses made all the more exciting beneath the concerned gaze of a framed, pastel painted Jesus who told people that this shade of infatuation was both beautiful and blasphemous at the same time.
Her first bitten lip is dedicated to the hungry boy that used to thrust above her. Who swayed and prayed for friction as he lost himself in the old brown couch in his basement. Polyester that had seen plenty of people come and go while Dave Matthews Band hummed in the background and the smell of burnt marijuana seasoned the air and erased her name.
Her first breath heavy with lust and love is dedicated to the boy in the dorm room directly below. A room filled with first times and countless choruses of “cooome on.” A room filled with passionate fights and compassionate apologies. A room filled with drastic actions and equally electric emotions. A room stacked in a concrete college building cut into the side of a southern hill.
Her first moans are dedicated to the girl from the frat party who looked a bit like her, fucked a lot like her, but chose to remain nameless as she grabbed her shoes and shut the door. Leaving behind more questions than answers when it came to figuring out if she was an L, a B, or a Q, wandering through acronyms that promised identity.
Her first cry of pleasure that stuck like syrup in her throat is dedicated to the ravenous, amorous bodies that smiled, writhed, and anchored her to the plastic mattress in a red-lit room that was arguably across the ocean but felt more like being at home in her own desirable skin. The languages were different but the screams were easy to translate.
Her first smile that turned into longing, that turned into love, that turned into something stronger, something that promised to last, is dedicated to him. The boy who still sits proudly beside her, who still pulls her close under the covers, who still holds her hand loosely or tightly or in whatever way she needs. The boy who still makes her wail and whisper a name they both share as they dip, sink, and drown deeply inside one another, never asking to be rescued because they only truly exist within the depth of each other’s hearts.
But I dedicate this legacy of intimacy to me.
I’m the girl with bushy bangs leaving kisses under the grand piano, torn between sin and sex. I’m the girl who thought an invitation to the old brown couch meant she was special. I’m the girl who learned that college relationships don’t always last but also how to heal a broken heart. I’m the girl who learned that identity and desire are complicated and labels aren’t always useful. I’m the girl who took a risk and tried something new, tried someone new (or two), loving her body in between the pages of her passport. I’m the girl who married her soulmate.
I am the girl who falls in love.
I dedicate this love story — and the ones to come — to me.
