Seventeen
It’s a dim stipple memory, dark maroon in the backseat-upholstery not-quite-un-comfortable positioning of back against bench, a worn denim reminder of the seam of my jeans rubbing just… there… in the aftermath of hurried teenage date-night car sex.
My body saying, Feel this.
And while I didn’t know just what it was that I was feeling, I knew that it was pleasureful.
After that, I learned to listen for my heartbeat inside the pink nub at the crown of my center-thighs. I learned to make it race there and heard the call of heat when it thundered its lightning storm that soaked my slit.
I listened to my body.
And I stopped listening to his li{n}es.
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