I joined choir in the first year of secondary school, and there was a girl. A special girl. For the sake of the story and that Bad Biography™️ feel, her name shall be Ivy. She was confident, charming, beautiful, and yet, kind. I adored her, in ways I didn't understand, and in ways I suppressed.
Then, there was a party. I went to the first party in the year too, but I hated it. And yet, I still went to this party. Why not, right? And who was there but Ivy. We talked, we danced. A slow song came on. She wrapped her hands around my neck, her arms resting on my shoulders, as she told me to move to the music. I did as she said, and we danced together. I felt like I never had before, it was all so confusing and magical. All while Ivy's everlasting beautiful smirk stayed on her face. For a long time, I stayed confused about that night. I saw her many times after, and it always caught me off guard.
I saw her again some time ago, and we talked briefly. She was still the same Ivy I knew, and me, drunk off the excitement of the night, felt exactly the same way I felt a year ago. She blew me a kiss, and wow, was I gay (ha, as in, liking girls, but also happy? Hehe.).
Does she like girls? I don't know. Would be cool, though. To paraphrase Jurgen: I do not understand this and therefore it is meaningless.
YOU ARE READING
On My Sexuality
Non-FictionI just wanted to write this for Pride Month! There's not much else to say, really.
