Kat George

I went home that night and cried. “I miss you already” I wrote in a text to her, and I’d barely pressed send when my phone began vibrating, flashing with her name.

Now you’re just sweat and pubes on my sheets and I wish I could freeze you in time so I could get familiar with all your crevices and poke and prod around like you’re my high school science experiment before we go any further with this, but I don’t quite have the technology.

I won’t cuddle you when you come and sit on the edge of the bed, even though all I really want to do is crawl inside you and wear your skin as a coat and your guts as a scarf, because love is gross and creepy like that.

New rule: the second I walk into a dude’s room and he has a mattress on the floor (box springs are acceptable) I’m turning around and walking straight back out.

But as I’ve discovered recently, most women have never seen their pee hole.

Is it your birthday? Are you upset because you’re spending it without your loved ones? Sad that you’re getting older?

Ah, the good old finger bang.

Because our reality, right now, it’s just about falling in love. Let’s put the real stuff aside—the past, our insecurities, all the baggage we’ve imported from all our journeys—and let’s just be. This is our moment to be fanciful, and we might not get another one, at least not together. I don’t want to have to “deal” and “cope” and “work” yet.