Being around him always made me feel sick. In retrospect, I should’ve kept my distance, but the burning desire of adolescent inexperience and a complete lack of impulse control had me like silly putty in his hands every time we met.
He owned me. From the moment we met on the pier, my only chance to escape his clutches were until our lips first touched on a dare four weeks later.
I can still remember the crackling of the fire and the sweaty mid-summer musk of pre-teen boy sweat as I clenched my eyes tight. I could feel the warmth of his sunburnt cheeks radiating onto mine before he swiftly grazed my lips with his. I was struck by lightning. All my senses suddenly focused on how long he was lingering on me, and counting the length of his gentle exhale in heartbeats I could feel in my throat.
And I would never find that feeling again.