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Wicked Fire
Jun. 7th, 2010 09:21 pm"Wicked fire," she said, as if swearing.
"Pardon?" I asked. I have heard strange things uttered, usually contextless quotes from books, or the remnant ort of dreams in the middle of the night, but she had been staring at me, and I, I hoped, was neither bad nor aflame.
It was then that she leaned over and kissed me for the first time.
To say I was surprised would be both a lie and a truth. How can you be surprised when a wish comes to rest on you? For indeed, you wished it. Maybe not in so many words, and maybe not consciously, but I had to admit, yes, I had wanted it.
I thought it would matter more than we were girls together. I had always had a pang for the sweetness of seeing a girl holding another girl's hand, or a wistfulness in watching them kiss, or simply touch each other's hair.
I had kissed boys. I had liked kissing boys. I remembered fondly running from them in the woods behind the school, the thrill of halfway hoping to be caught and the fear of being pursued in equal measure. The games had been innocent, only the discovering of male and female and the potential in them, nothing sour, nothing of true terror.
I liked the grinding against each other, the sweat, the wild looks exchanged, half-mischief, half-desire.
That much was the same.
Other things were unsurprisingly different.
"It is a wicked fire that burned in me," she explained. "One you kindled."
"Unknowingly at best," I protested. I licked at her finger that had lingered near my lips.
"You matched it with embers of your own brought to life with my breath, and my kiss," she grinned, teasingly.
"Banked for a rainy day?" I asked.
"Shall I make you blush as I talk about dew and the wrinkled flowers I've bloomed?"
"From fire to water so quickly?"
"It was not a dry heat," she said, and kissed me again. I always remember that kiss the fondest, surrounded as we were by clothing and books, and the sound of the rain outside, and the mess of the pencils left scattered across the desk, and the kitten who had found a warm spot near the door.
I had no idea what to do, where to touch, what to say, but we figured it out well enough, I suppose. In those memories, there were no worries, no one to say it was wrong or things to be done a specific way.
It was the first price I had to pay.
"Pardon?" I asked. I have heard strange things uttered, usually contextless quotes from books, or the remnant ort of dreams in the middle of the night, but she had been staring at me, and I, I hoped, was neither bad nor aflame.
It was then that she leaned over and kissed me for the first time.
To say I was surprised would be both a lie and a truth. How can you be surprised when a wish comes to rest on you? For indeed, you wished it. Maybe not in so many words, and maybe not consciously, but I had to admit, yes, I had wanted it.
I thought it would matter more than we were girls together. I had always had a pang for the sweetness of seeing a girl holding another girl's hand, or a wistfulness in watching them kiss, or simply touch each other's hair.
I had kissed boys. I had liked kissing boys. I remembered fondly running from them in the woods behind the school, the thrill of halfway hoping to be caught and the fear of being pursued in equal measure. The games had been innocent, only the discovering of male and female and the potential in them, nothing sour, nothing of true terror.
I liked the grinding against each other, the sweat, the wild looks exchanged, half-mischief, half-desire.
That much was the same.
Other things were unsurprisingly different.
"It is a wicked fire that burned in me," she explained. "One you kindled."
"Unknowingly at best," I protested. I licked at her finger that had lingered near my lips.
"You matched it with embers of your own brought to life with my breath, and my kiss," she grinned, teasingly.
"Banked for a rainy day?" I asked.
"Shall I make you blush as I talk about dew and the wrinkled flowers I've bloomed?"
"From fire to water so quickly?"
"It was not a dry heat," she said, and kissed me again. I always remember that kiss the fondest, surrounded as we were by clothing and books, and the sound of the rain outside, and the mess of the pencils left scattered across the desk, and the kitten who had found a warm spot near the door.
I had no idea what to do, where to touch, what to say, but we figured it out well enough, I suppose. In those memories, there were no worries, no one to say it was wrong or things to be done a specific way.
It was the first price I had to pay.