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by Dr. Nancy Nelson

           We spent the day together drinking cold sodas, going for walks, and listening to music that lifted us to the clouds.  We had not touched, although I had longed to run my fingers across her bare shoulders; but I did not know how to touch a woman. As a refreshing breeze rustled the trees around the porch, she took me in her arms, pressing her body hard against mine. The rules I learned about love crumbled around me. While resting in her arms I declared if a woman loving a woman was wrong, I would be wrong all my life.

            With my hand resting lightly in hers, I followed her into the bedroom, onto the bed. Even though I had been loved by many men, I was like a virgin, frightened, excited, and trusting. I was a flower blooming, unfolding each pedal with care as her hands explored my body. The softness of her touch freed my mind from fear, allowing me to enjoy being with her.

            I marveled at the smallness of her body and the smoothness of her dark brown skin. The men I laid with were much bigger than I and had broad shoulders. Her body was smaller than mine and our height almost equal. Her lips did not swallow mine but shared the touch. Her tongue did not force itself into every corner of my mouth. Her small firm breasts were exciting to caress, to taste. We slept in each other’s arms, waking before dawn to explore, caress, and love again. I didn’t want to think of the morning hour that would separate us.

            I had loved and been loved by a woman. The memory of her touch would return to me for many years, causing my body to tremble and my heart to soften. The love society taught was wrong was so right that hot, humid August night.