by Brittany Dawson


My first kiss: We stood in the back parking lot of the mall. Donned in an apron slathered with chunky patches of dried flour and salt, I reeked of butter, pretzel dough, and curiosity. Working at a pretzel kiosk reaped its reward; I saw my prize waiting in front of my car, wearing a timid smile, long-sleeve checkered flannel, and dark washed jeans from American Eagle.

by Yirssi (@Yirssi)

I live in a world that tries to police both my body and my sexuality. Different people, during different and unrelated conversations, feel the need to tell me how long I should wait to have sex with a new partner. My father thinks I should wait until I get married again. My friend and coworker thinks I should wait six months. My brother says 4 months, and the movie “Think Like a Man, Act Like a Lady” says 90 days. And of course, most of the men I go on dates with try to get into my skirts as quickly as possible.

The sun blares through the blinds of an unfamiliar room. It takes a few blinks for you to put together the pieces of your night. The disheveled room décor is a pretty good indication that fun was had. The light snore of the person next to you is comforting but their scent is one that is unfamiliar to you. This is not the person you are used to. They are not your significant other.

The remnants of the night confirm your infidelity.