The first time I had sex with a girl, we did it in a closet. No, seriously. She had a huge walk-in closet with a small twin-size daybed in it. She would sit on that bed, light candles – her parents didn’t know she did that – draw and write on the walls. It was like being inside her soul. She painted and drew and put things on those walls that were beautiful, honest, and every reason I loved her so dearly. I was “straight,” by the way. I have always thought that I was “straight”. The alternative wasn’t feasible. Fooling around, that’s all we were doing. I was just a young, wild girl, fooling around, and it wasn’t serious. But it really was. Why? because I loved her and I knew that… I loved her. At 6 AM after I had the most Maltepe Escort sexually-induced, emotionally enlightening, experience of my life, I fell asleep next to her, panic-stricken, doing the exact thing that has not ceased, even to this day, asking myself, “Am I a lesbian?”So that night, under the guise that we were just senior high school friends, we went up to her room, shut and locked the door. She lit a few candles, started a playlist – “I Kissed a Girl”, “1950”, Sofia”, “I Touch Myself”, “Betty”, “Dance Like Nobody’s Watching” and a bunch more. Some songs made me feel like I either wanted to cry, to touch myself, or never listen to them again. They all touched me. But I Maltepe Escort Bayan digress. We sat next to each other and giggled. “Are we really going to do this?” I laughed. She laughed, too. I told her I had never done this before. Half of me was calmed by the fact that I had some inkling of how to touch her, because it was how I’d want to be touched. But it was more foreign to me than a boy’s body. More foreign to me even though I’d had her same physiology all my life. Because none of that matters when you want to love someone for more than just their body. So, we listed how we were going to do this. We would kiss first, and then we outlined the next steps and how we would do them one at a time and then we would stop and talk about it and make sure we still wanted to do it or go to the next step and if at any point one of us wanted to stop, that was it, we would stop, but we didn’t stop. I had “boyfriends” before, adolescent men that I could seduce into loving me with my feminine looks and overtly sexual nature. Boys were easy. Girls weren’t. Girls were what I really wanted. When something ever matters to me, I am usually perplexed and terrified and cowardly and confused. These boys never made me orgasm, I made myself orgasm, they just happened to be there while it happened. They never made me cry for any other reason than that I felt unwanted. They touched me to warm me up to touch them, not because they wanted me to be that completely vulnerable and literally and metaphorically naked in front of them. Please note: this is not to say that all men are like this, of course, that was just my experience at the time.