I Knew She Was Amazonian
The first time Wren and I took a shower together, she stepped in backwards and pressed herself against me. With my hands on what little love-handles she had, my chin on the nape of her neck, I asked-you're nervous, aren't you?-to which she simply hummed in agreement. I pressed myself against her and reached for the loofah.
The hot water level was tolerable as the shower head was fixed. The stream was hard and slowly, I washed her lower back, kissing her spine as I went. She asked-do you think my breasts are small?-to which I wanted to roll my eyes, but instead bit my lower gum-line.
I turned her around, her gaze lowered to the floor as if tethered there by an invisible thread of gravity. I said what she needed to hear.
-They are your breasts, and, because of that, small but lovely. I enjoy their perkiness-
She raised an eyebrow and the right side of her mouth curved downward: a sickle. I asked-is my penis small?-to which she shook her head and whispered -average, and, even if it were small, I'd still adore you-
There is too much animosity in the minds of our youth. The body is a political playground for capitalism and deprecation, is the only force worthy of manipulation. I rinsed her off, and we toweled each other. I realized, were I a female, she wouldn't worry. I realized were she a male, I would. I took her hand and had her grab me below.-You are the boss of the two of us-She perked up.
She conquered me, her aureolas the hue of wild berries, and scythed me.