:It started out conceivably enough; I, with a twinkle in one eye and a tear dripping from the other.  A tale beginning by the lust of a fine older lady, maybe thirteen to my 8. Like so many queer scenarios played out before, this was butt another chasing of a childish ass around a romantic gesture gone sabotage.  "Who bombards a boy?"  I questioned only to quickly recognize a, "don't just stand there, she's gunna kiss me!"  battle was horrifically under way.  Taking wage, the event hollered of cackling laughter clouding perpetrator's judgment as my life was sorely dependent on an elaborate scheme escape outta this mack trapping.  An experience I cannot shake, I remember finding her cute like "you" would.  …But maybe buy an icebreaker a drink first?   

I can say, honestly, I pondered her as to have the hugs of legend or that she'd developed a reputation of the obvious big spoon stature.  Her miles I foresaw suggested she would have dumped me in ways I'd never been tussled.  Like ass grabbing at a casket  or the type of cuddling that would need a safe word.  Her, with brown chest length dancer hair that screamed popularity and I've had a beer before, she wore a strictly bold navy blue and white plaid dress of the elegant tween demeanor.  She had a cockiness that made her height soo staggering.  Like she thought I'd never grow to be a foot taller than her in the long run.  She was in those years where her testicles didn't exist and her ovaries bled.  Life was new and really messy and she wanted to test her antic-waters on any river that streamed.  I guess I was the one she'd drown.  

Brought to the cottage by her friend, my mom's friends daughter.  She had a reputation as "the catapult," whatever that meant.  The days were filled with lime grass fields anchoring a breathless sky that seemed to yawn the lightest blue hue.  We, the children of friends, would hop the boulders around the side-yard's fire place anxiously awaiting our turns to steer the reddest four wheeler to ever contrast a backdrop.  Back in the day it seemed like the only thing illegal was being a buzz kill.  ...oh and I think murder was frowned upon.  But I believe that was new and you just couldn't do it in restaurants.   (Remember when you could smoke in places?  And you weren't automatically a tool for paying to give yerself lung cancer?  Oh those were the days.)   

"As you were saying"…

My siblings and I were diagnosed eight, nine and twelve, just shy of our thirteen year old counterparts.  These newly crowned wimmin weekend pals and our innocent idiocy were all under the impression that if you weren't sweet sixteen yet than you didn't need a license to drive said "shit."  A conclusion that brought me to curious, having been an offspring of their step at the time, what my parents had on their minds as they watched us gallop aimlessly around like poliod horses without a care in the world.  Allowing us to turn any key that moved and scrape all the knees we could muster.  I imagine initially they had proposed hints of concern for our safety.   …I being that of a narcissist and nobody likes a dinged lexus.  But soon enough shifting to a mentality of, "Let them be reckless so they don't have to out live being cute."  It was a good motto I thought, as most parents strive to out live, than burry their child.  

The nights were brilliant, I mean, when their wasn't crying from assault.  Everything was reminiscent of a Polaroid.  It was exactly what the weekend needed after a long five days.  The sun would set like men man made it.  Tough callused hands as rough as the silent type.  Every night felt like we'd all fixed carburetors for the wife's chevette and she'd, in appreciation, prepared potatoes, corn and hardy things that hand shakes and emotionless grandpas were made out of in a show of gratitude.  The sun had begun to sank into the forest, so like a pecker on a branch, I succumbed to a dashing view.  The bedroom bunked, to share myself and siblings, was in direct competition of a silhouette sofa, foregrounding the calmest back drop to ever envelop a landscape.  I bathed in that sort of visual.  It was like peace peeing on harmony cause they were in a very communicative sexual relationship and that's what got them off.  

I had spent that wondrous evening however, like the kind you'd spend reading a novel or things called literature, with my head engulfed in arms.  It felt like I had picked up a book, read the last page and couldn't, for the vagina in me, understand why I didn't get the conclusion.  I had read the title, got excited than faked a plot.  I mean, I wasn't just gunna admit to being illiterate.  I wasn't a robot!!  But the experience had, left a void, like filling yer gullet so full you were starving.  This was not the heterosexuality I had learned of in gym class change rooms.  Not at all!  And any apology to proceed said event would've been just another example that I was different.  

…A shade slightly cyaned.  Reiterating, while shadow casting blues crashed through orange grass shimmers just beyond my silled window, I contemplated that morning I had amongst the pancakes.  They just sat there dripping syrup in aw and helplessness as I bolted through the kitchen over evergreen and pearl white floors. "They were just pancakes!!" I cried.  As they witnessed me chessed like a rook on a pawn on this checker board of a breakfast ambush.  I struggled but the use was no.  They wanted a straight boy and, "dammit," they wouldn't wait till brunch.  Finally the inevitable would crush down like a hunt for rare species of the whatever kind and ensued was a drastic kiss on the cheek of my freckled adolescence.  The rents had clung me to the floor like a destructive attempt to make me one of those men ya hear about in testosterone weekly.  You know…  the "hawt" ones.  And no matter how many times my penis insisted I had already been circumcised,  it didn't make a lick of difference.  I could have sworn that counted for everything.  At any rate, and with a needless to say, the game played out that day was over.  Well-wishers or not, and what we all wished, could not have been further from the truth.  Nothing of the sort.  It was a game of cat and mouse that'd been consumed by the dog.  So as I panted away wallowing like an orphaned puppy, it was all ridiculously forgotten and chalked up to shyness.    

:Some say aces live from traumatic experience.  I'm neither condoning or denying the possibility, based on the individual and personal experience, of course.  Though, I kinda think trauma is a result of asexuality.  The mystery of every experience, never understanding the degree of comfort in a sexuality norm.  It would be like saying being gay is a bad opposite sex experience or ...a more relatable way for everyone, would be like when a straight man finds their girlfriend's penis and suddenly doesn't love them anymore.  No man should be applauded for overlooking this!  You should go into every relationship assuming everyone has a penis.  What do you have to lose?  Fellatio is just cunnilingus on the outside.  Like fucking in braud daylight.  Who WOULDN'T want to see the controls?    

IN retrospect, they say a kiss is just a kiss.  Lets just keep it consensual.  Be aware of other's comfort levels whether yer straight, ace, gay or actually a robot.    

The END