The first time I had sex I was wearing a pair
of army green stretchy pants.
I accept
that they were probably not made with my body in mind:
The army green legging pattern or design.
But I have rather wide hips and
somewhat larger thighs,
so I had no choice but to go up in a size.
The leggings, of course,
were not on during the process of the act, but
worn at the beginning, as I lifted my back,
allowing for a quick peel
down the unshaven length of my legs, the leggings indeed
fell smoothly away.
At least for a little while anyways.
They got to my ankles then,
the ripples of fabric slowly unfolding, smoothly rolling,
like frosting from a baker’s hand, openly curling.
Then stopped with a peel of bludgeoned laughs
as I lay not vertical, but at some kind of acute angle, hanging nearly
precariously from my small and dainty ankles.
Then I wondered, how many drafts?
How many moments of pondered artifacts that
would eventually come down to a
pair of army green virginity pants.
The anticipation: At last!
It was interrupted by a peel of softly bludgeoned laughs.
I welcome this fact,
taking a moment to pause
and listen to the noise of the fabric’s applause
as it clung to its last moments attached to my thick and heavy rods.
Stretched in spandex I felt them let loose, feeling my feet
curl up snuggly around you.
I came to decide that I love my virginity pride and
the pants that will wrap neatly around my open and gaping
thighs.
To me, it doesn’t even matter that you never said
Goodbye.