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crush

My crush crawls slowly across the floor, scuffing her black leotards on the distressed hickory planks.  The sheer black mesh of her long-sleeved top is unable to contain her any more than the walls I keep building in my mind to keep her at bay.

She forms on the edges of my consciousness as I drift off to sleep.  Each night, it is the same: the sugar skull of my littlest skeleton comes into view, like a Puerto Rican Cheshire cat, and the rest of her begins to fill in.  In a matter of seconds, she is all there, and I am unable to resist, just as it was the first time I saw her.  With that thick, jet back hair grazing her collarbone. She tilted her head back to look up at me, and the teeming group in that cramped room suddenly dissolved, and all that mattered was what I saw in her gaze.

Large, warm cocoa eyes with gleaming flecks of gold ringed with dense, curling lashes blinked once at me. Just once – and every cliché I’d ever heard about love suddenly made sense.  It would be four years until we would make love, but not a night since that misty, humid May Saturday had gone by without her floating into my dreams.

I did what I could – please believe that – but it was no use.  My crush broke through, and now she is crawling up from the bottom of my bed, pulling my covers down. 

Those eyes are locked on mine.  I want to look away, but it’s no use; I can’t. Her pudgy, stubby fingers press themselves into my thighs and run due north along the course of my legs.  Getting up onto her knees, she opens her legs and presses them against the insides of my calves.  Her belly, soft and doughy, spills from the bottom of her top, like when you pop a roll of biscuits but before you twist it open.

Next to her eyes, that belly is my weakness.  Reaching for it, I pull her closer.  Sitting on my belly, she giggles as I find a hole in the mesh and rend her top in two. Starting from just above her navel in a straight line to the bottom of the “V” in the collar.  I reach up behind her head with my right hand and grab a clump of hair. And pull her down to me, her lips smashing into mine.

So far, this sounds just like any other first-fuck story, right?  It’s not, I assure you.  NOTHING about my crush is typical, and what she springs on me next – I promise you, those details will make up the hottest call you make all year