My First Taste of Real Freedom

There are lovers you remember with your mind.

And then there are lovers your body never forgets.

For me, that was David.

He wasn’t my first—not technically.

But he was the first to make me feel like sex wasn’t something I gave away.

It was something I inhabited.

We were young—I wasn’t even old enough to buy my own cigarettes, and he was still living on pizza and cheap beer. We met while working at an all-night pizza place, the kind of job you take when you're not sure what's coming next.

I didn’t know who I was yet. Not really. But around him, I didn’t feel like I had to pretend.

He made space for all the parts of me—especially the ones I was still figuring out.

It wasn’t a forever kind of love. We didn’t plan weddings or talk about settling down—or even the future, really.

But in my heart, it felt like more than forever.

Because the way he touched my soul… I was convinced we’d find each other again in another lifetime.

What we shared was its own kind of sacred.

Not because it was exclusive.

But because it was honest.

It was one of the first times I’d ever felt completely and utterly unjudged.

He didn’t try to contain me.

He didn’t ask me to shrink.

He didn’t interpret my curiosity as betrayal or my fantasies as threats.

He listened. He laughed. He stayed curious.

And so I let go.

With him, I wasn’t performing.

I wasn’t trying to prove anything or win approval.

I could be wild.

Messy.

Loud.

Tender.

Even ridiculous.

And none of it made me less lovable in his eyes.

There was one night—I can’t hear the Gypsy Kings without going back in time.

We hadn’t seen each other in years. Older now, both of us. A little more world-worn, but not yet jaded.

By then, I was a mother. I had already lived through a marriage and watched it unravel.

And still, we found our way back—

Back into each other’s orbit, like one of those cosmic collisions that feels both improbable and inevitable.

We danced. We laughed. We remembered.

And later, when we fell into bed, it wasn’t about nostalgia or what we used to be.

It was about what we still carried.

That night reminded me of something I hadn’t even realized I’d forgotten:

What it feels like to be completely unguarded.

To be touched with reverence, not possession.

To be seen—truly seen—and not edited.

Looking back now, I realize that David set the standard.

Not just for good sex, but for real sex.

The kind that doesn’t just happen in the body, but unfolds through the soul.

He taught me that safety is the soil where desire blooms.

That being curious is far more powerful than being right.

And that judgment kills far more pleasure than boredom ever could.

I’ve carried that with me ever since.

Into every relationship. Every exploration. Every new unfolding of myself.

Not as a comparison.

But as a compass.

A remembering of what’s possible when two people meet each other with curiosity instead of fear.