My sweetest downfall

Steven asked me if I would ever love a boy... or was it date one? Fuck one?
Regardless, I told him "Perhaps, but I think they'd have to be quite feminine - I'm attracted to traits and physicalities that are inherently female." (I give myself too much credit, I answered drunkenly and probably not as concisely. Gist. Set. Match. Move on.)

I spent last night with my first love.
I've been remembering. Ages 13 and 14. He was the taller of us at the time, though I, as ever, the stronger. Long, blond hair. Sculpted hips. Beautiful, in a crooked-teeth can't-help-but-grin-back at you sort of way.
And we were maddeningly first-time-ever in love.

Gender be damned we were gay, but not in the way everyone thought. Not in a way even we knew.

One was never seen without the other and now, holding him once again last night, I recalled that inexorable connection - I realised that my body knows him better than I. It always has.
Breathing in his tight black singlets and the night air took me back into tents and upon rooftops. To trees and cement and half-built houses with the wonder of discovering one another and skirting around unseen elephants that crowded our rooms.

I know what it is like to love a boy. What it was like to date a boy, even in girls clothing. And, of all those I have loved, the first cut was truly the deepest.
I love him with my soul, but not my mind.
In the morning I am off, to places he cannot, and would not want to follow.

Yes, I know what it is like to date and love and fuck a boy. All be it a boy of unconventional type.
His skin is burned into mine as a message of what always will and will not be.
















(Steven Mitchell Wright - so that this may show up when you google yourself)