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My sexual awareness began to feel hindered; kissing, holding hands and open affection didn’t happen on my parents’ watch. You’d think that the culture responsible for the Kama Sutra would encourage open, liberal attitudes, but no.

On a quiet summer night, I fucked a stranger who called me Tinkerbell. He was very, very tall and talked in a low, simple manner that made you think he was dumber than he probably was.

Honey drips down my fingers and he laps it up. It runs into my hair and sticks; he says he likes the tackiness, uses it to knot his hands in there, some attempted personification of permanence. It’s just the first touch, but we already know this won’t last forever.

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