The first time I heard the sounds of sex I was 8. Standing with fear and curiosity outside my parents bedroom door. Clutching a bag of stolen chips and a glass of grape juice. I was going to have a late night tea party but instead of innocent giggles of imagination I got very real debauchery. Even at the age of 8
my plans always had an annoying way of turning to shit.
And my over active imagination went for a walk down a dark path.
From the cries and pleading, moaning and groaning I thought my mom was getting murdered, mutilated. and stabbed. Which technically she was just not with a knife. Oh no not with a knife. I didnt investigate but made flight for my instincts to fight was undeveloped. And by morning the incident was already forgotten as most memories of childhood fade into the minds dark night. But in that moment standing outside that door a seed was planted.
The first girl I ever kissed was named Santanna. She had the softest lips. Two moth wings, virgin-touches brushed mines was the most tickling sensation I had ever felt.
If my black skin could blush I would have been a cherry. A cherry that I would have given Santanna to pop but wouldnt understand the intricate, delicate, meaning of such a gift in my prepubescent idles.
She had straighten permed hair. That laid flat on her head. Her skin was darker than mine. A kind of black that was purple. She told me she didnt mind it if I called her Blackie since I was special. But I never did. Because I was not a cruel school bully with low self-esteem but a girl with a love-crush. I thought we would get married in a tree and kiss in the leaves just because we could.
When I first realized that if I nibbled on Santanna's ear and tweaked her nipples she would moan my name, as if I was her God in that moment from that planted seed years ago a monster was born. A horny, curious, mannish little boy with a secret. The fruit dont fall far from the tree and I was definitely my father's daughters though. But I wanted to be the husband fuck being the wife, because boys had more fun.
The breadcrumbs of the pleasure are meant to be followed by the starved, and I had just tasted the donuts, croissants, french breads, gateaus of all cakes. Santanna was the filling that I craved, my own slice of American pie that I wanted to fuck in the kitchen.
When my father found Santanna and I kissing he gave me a wink and a round of applause.
When mom found Santanna and I kissing I received no standing ovation. It was a lazy afternoon, on my bed. Naturally, me on top. Santanna's Crying and pleading, moaning and groaning. Her lips still softer than rain so I drank. Every. Last. Drop.
With Mother listening with wide eyes, trembling hands, and silent fury which didnt remain silent for long.
I couldnt help but to wonder if her first thoughts, standing outside my closed bedroom door, holding the days laundry, were that I was murdering Santanna with my knife that wasnt really a knife.