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You're seven and you have met the most beautiful boy. And he is, beautiful, that is. But boys aren't beautiful. You know. So you cringe and stiffen up your upper lip and ignore him.
He's a boy and you hate him.
You're twelve and sunshine has waltzed into your life. You hate him so much an ache builds in your gut. You go home and curl your fingers into fists, decide to ignore him.
He's obnoxious and such a fucking idiot it burns your skin. There's a sunburn there that no one can see and you want to break his face.
You're twelve and you're in the middle of your first kiss.
It's dry and quick and accidental.
It's disgusting.
You're fifteen and some girl just blew you in the bathroom.
It was filthy and degrading and you vomit after—spit bile into the bushes behind the school, the corners of your eyes wet and your stomach aching.
You think maybe there's something wrong with you.
You’re seventeen and there’s a girl. She’s beautiful and naked and offering you a space between her thighs.
It’s terrifying. Your stomach ties itself in knots even as you crawl between her knees. She laughs and smiles and presses her lips to yours.
You can’t get hard—you can’t—
You leave, blame it on the alcohol and convince yourself that’s all it was.
You’re twenty-two and there’s something wrong with you.
There’s a beautiful woman pressing her fingers to your cheeks and you kiss her until she’s flushed. She drags her wrist against the fly of your pants and you take steady breaths.
You breathe but you can’t get fully hard with her hand and her eyes and—
She smiles like she knows a secret and sinks to her knees. You remember being fifteen and disgusted and tilt your face away. You don’t think of her as she does it, try and think neutral thoughts until she stops.
She stops and frowns and asks if you’re even paying attention.
You scowl and ask her if she really thinks she’s that good.
She snarls and slaps you, storms out.
You’ve never been so thankful.
You’re twenty-seven.
They make jokes and ask "aren't you lonely?"
They smile and say "you need a woman."
You tell them a relationship is a waste of time, you don't need any women slowing you down.
You’re thirty-one and you’re tired.
At night the world opens up beneath your eyelids and you wonder if you made a mistake somewhere along the way.
You’re thirty-four and sunshine has found its way back into your life.
An old resentment wells up in your lungs and you try to breathe through it.
He smiles and laughs and claps you on the back as though the years had never happened.
Your breath chokes you.
You’re thirty-seven.
You’re thirty-seven and he’s a man and you hate him.
He brushes against you, presses fingers into your skin and laughs. You tremble when he’s gone and wish for better things.
The mirror shows you how much you’ve grown and you close your eyes.
You’re thirty-eight.
His fingers tug at your shirt, his mouth whispers at your skin and you close your eyes to all of it. His words are quiet worship and you ache.