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Grown Virgins: Sex Some Wish We'd Have, Pt. 1


“Great. I’m doing good, like, really good.”

With hot cups in hand, we take to our seats as coffee stirs into the background. My eyes reflect joy unshaken with specks of freedom and flight. A faithful jacket rests on my shoulders, carrying memories of African markets and European trains between stiches of leather. Jewels upon my ears ring of ancient desert and Mediterranean beaches even still. I smile.

Her scarf smells of familiarity woven with hints of unsatisfied curiosity and unlearned slang. We’ve sat in fellowship halls and bar chairs, have sung clean hymns and dirty songs. She is a long time friend from innocent years when our arms swayed between class sessions and chapel. She was always a one-footed devotee, though; a leg stance I thought would be grown out of within relationship.

But such is the condition of some friendships fumbled upon: one foot in and one foot out. Sometimes, loyalty is not recognizable until truth slips between eye flicks and creviced conversation.

“Tell me. Are you really good?” Her hips settle into soft sofa like steam sitting above her untouched tea tragically getting cold.

“Yes, yes. I’m good.” Excitingly, I share stories of risk and safety, travel and home, miracle and common occurrence. She scans my face looking for signs of “otherwise,” but I pretend not to notice her question my genuine shine. I try to ease her analysis with cherished humor and moments of gold throughout months of mysterious faith. I laugh with my belly and she laughs with her neck. Pointed eyes peer down a saintly nose while her legs shift awkwardly closed. I attempt to tame embers of frustration, but I’ve gathered with virgins just the night before and we all laughed until our sides hurt at the ridiculousness of life temporal. I hope her neck chuckle doesn’t serve as intimation for her boredom, leading to questions that uncover no new news.

“So, you are good, really?”

“Yes,” my smile almost cracks, not out of façade, but of sheer annoyance. I’m speaking forwardly. The sky is blue and my life is good. What other word must I say for “yes” to mean, “yes.” Shall I say “ioe, truly, certainly, of course?” Should I dance for show to exude happiness, or laugh until I cry and watcher be satisfied? Maybe I should jump upon table and karaoke a tune, or drink until slurs become believable. Must I become a wreck to be believed, or can being stable be enough?

Her scarf leans over, rushing a whiff of cold dirt water into my face. Thankfully, the steam of my cup is already gone and my tea went down warm.

She leans in and seems as inviting as a pissed on sidewalk.

“But is there a man?”

The joy in my eye grows brighter and righteous anger does so, too.

“Are you happy, really, with no man?”

Bitch, I knew I didn’t like your legs.

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