She was a senior in high school. I was a sophomore. She was so much prettier than me. Her hair was long and red. He nails were vicious talons painted black with red tips. She smelled like fresh cut grass and dripped sexiness everywhere she went. I couldn’t believe it when she asked me to go to a movie with her. Was it as a friend? Was it as a date? Was she into girls too? Was I into girls?

I didn’t know. But I knew she made me feel like the molecules in my body were moving too fast and crashing into each other. Zipping past each other in some places and jamming up like traffic in others.

We sat down in the back row and watched this vile Shakespeare adaptation. It was well done but a disgusting story. She held my hand. Those long, dangerous, wickedly erotic nails gently brushing my short broken ones and wrapping around my fingers.

I was breathing wrong. Too shallow. Too many, too few. All off time and trying to to let her know.

And then lunged kn to kiss her. I couldn’t believe myself.

I had never done anything so daring before.

It wasn’t like kissing a boy.

Kissing boys was orange or red in my head. Hot, primal. Made me want to submit to them and be taken.

But kissing her was yellow. A soft bloom of gently ecstasy.

Her mouth was cool and fresh. I felt our teeth touch. She put her hands on me.

Being aroused by a boy was like being taken over.

Being aroused by her was like two butterflies in the air. Like two glittering fish just under the surface of a pond. I didn’t need to submit to her and she didn’t need to submit to me. It was just an endless slow, safe drift into yellow breathlessness.

I’m in my 30s now. Happily married to a man. But that kiss was like a daffodil and I don’t know how else to explain it.