I hope you know what you are doing

"I love it!" he said. "I just love it!"
And then we kissed our first kiss soon after that. He tasted of salted sunflower seeds (his secret weakness, as we would learn later). His tongue was thin and pointy and intelligent. I didn't remember leading him to the bedroom, only that we were there already, lying on the crumpled blue bedcover, his fingers, my fingers, the small hollow inside his elbow and the vein pulsing in it. I thought I could see a faint radiation of heat where our skins touched. Did his hair smell of lemons? In my hurry I tore a loose button off his shirt. (Later we would laugh about that.) The back of his ear-stud rasped my hand, raising a weal. He brought it to his mouth and licked it. The small mirrors embroidered into the bedcover pressed their cool disks against his bare back, then against mine. His nipples were brown and hard as apple seeds in my mouth.

Then his hands were on mine, tight, stopping me as I tugged on his zipper.

"Don't. It isn't safe. I didn't expect this. I don't have anything with me. And I take it you don't either…."

The blood rocked so hard in the hollows of my body, I feared I'd break open. He had to repeat himself before I could understand the words. I shook my head vaguely, not caring. I wouldn't let go. My body, thwarted so long, had seized on wildness like a birthright. A part of me cried, You're insane. I pushed my face against him, his chest hairs wiry against my tongue, until finally his hands were gone. I could feel fingers, their drowning grip on my hair. I heard him say something. The words were too close, out of focus.

Later I would think we had started with God. As in God I hope you know what you're doing.