Something so sweet about that new sex, that awkward fumbling, that unskilled vague reaching in the general direction. Something exciting about the near misses, wondering if he will find your clitorus eventually, wondering if she will ever put her finger right inside you, wondering if, at the end you will spit or swallow. The nervous laughter, the embarassment of incompetence. I will look at this young kind of sex with nostalgic fondness. I will long for it because I will never again be in this position. This safe sure sexuality. This workmanlike satisfaction, sure orgasms, this lack of insecurity, this easy abandon.
I look at photos of them, all the baby love, new sex, blossoming bodies in terror of each other and I long to go back there, to the beginning of it all. Like reading The Virgin Suicides for the first time, coming to it fresh and green and full of wonder.
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