This was the weekend we first met.

The first time we kissed. The first time we held each other. The first time we slept with arms entwined, bodies bare and buried under the covers.

It was before the snow melted on the verge of spring, when I would open the windows to dry the sweat from our skin.

I put on a song that made me cry, because she said that it turned her on, and with the tears welling up in my lids, we stared into each others’ eyes.

From the moment we touched, there was never any awkwardness. Only a complete trust, a comforting familiarity, as if we’d known each other for years, a gentle nuzzle of the nose from my baby-faced doll.

Someone who saw this video sent me this very touching letter about her story of rape and recovery:

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