I learned my first lesson in love when I was seven years old, sitting cross-legged at the kitchen table while my mother chopped garlic and told me that no man would make me happy. The year I turned sixteen, I lost my virginity at three in the afternoon in a claustrophobic studio apartment, to a tall twenty-four year old I had met just the day before. After we finished he asked me for a dollar to do laundry, and I said that I didn’t have one, and he kissed me on the forehead and told me to hurry home before it gets dark. After that I spent my time learning the shapes of men, the shapes of men smoking on the sidewalks and the shapes of men straight on the other side of the bed at midnight. The feel of men when they held my hand and showed me where they wanted me to touch. The feel of each man, all different and all the same. I learned the taste of cheap wine they gave me before they undressed me, learned a new language of just yes, please, and thank you. I learned that in the morning some men will hand you a cigarette and pretend to know your name, and some men will make scrambled eggs and pretend to know your name, and some men will remember your name while they’re politely asking you to leave. The year I turned sixteen, I met a man with terrible posture, from a place that seemed not so far away at the time. The first time we touched, awash in the static of the crowd, that was when I felt safe for the very first time. The first time the shape of a man made me feel safe.