The first time her lips met mine
Later in life, they say, things are supposed to slow down. You’re meant to be wiser, more measured, perhaps even content with solitude. And I was—until I wasn’t. Not when she walked in.
It wasn’t fireworks or orchestras. It was the opposite: everything went silent. The part of me that had been straining, scanning the world for someone who might understand, simply… stopped.
Ms H and I were lying on my bed, fully clothed, as innocent as a pair of schoolkids playing hooky. We’d spent the evening talking, laughing, asking cautious questions, offering careful truths. I remember her warmth beside me—her small frame fitting perfectly in front of mine, the way spoons do when they’ve been used together for years. Natural. Familiar. And yet utterly new.
She asked it softly, without any edge:
“Why me? Why would you want to be with someone like me… when there are so many women with curves in all the right places?”
I could’ve made a joke, lightened the air. But something about her tone—genuine, unarmoured—deserved an honest answer.
“I don’t want them,” I said.
“Yours is the only body I want.”
And there, in that quiet cocoon, we kissed.
Not the kind of kiss you brag about to your mates. Not the movie kind, either. Just… gentle. Closed-mouthed. Reverent. Like we were trying not to scare the moment away.
She didn’t pull away.
Neither did I.
That kiss didn’t ask for anything more—it was the more.
People talk about chemistry like it’s a spark. But this was more like finding a secret door in your own home—a place you didn’t know you were allowed to feel safe in. Until now.