Firestorm

February 11, 2012
By , Minneapolis, MN
Of course I fell for her. How could I not? She was everything I wasn’t and aspired to be. Where I was awkward, gangly and flat, she was all smooth waves, smooth skin, pure female. She had a loud, infectious laugh and a voice that was inherently smiling and sarcastic – except when it wasn’t. She was melodious, gentle, charged with passion, and when she sang or cried or spoke in earnest, her voice washed over and rippled through me, and it was all I could do not to cry along with her. Even in her rage she was beautiful, her voice, while never aimed at me, crackling with power, causing me to shiver in a combination of fear and arousal. And her eyes – God, her eyes – carried the same fire as her words, cold and paralyzing towards her enemies but warm and gentle towards those she loved, and sometimes – I liked to think – towards me. She was a firestorm, a whirlwind of color, and I was lost before I even knew I was losing, lost in her reds and violets, in the melting golden-brown of her eyes and the shining chestnut of her hair, in the soft glow beneath her skin and the fire pouring from her heart, both muting and complimenting my lighter, calmer earth tones. She was a quick squeeze of the hand, a whiff of floral shampoo, a pair of fishnets and heels that had me wrapped around her finger in a heartbeat. And all the while I knew it was hopeless, knew that, on so many levels, I wasn’t good enough for her. Not pretty enough, not funny enough, not interesting enough, not feminine enough. I couldn’t possibly compete with all that she was in her passion and her beauty. But that never for a moment stopped me from wanting her. What choice did I have? I was head over heels, heart over head, left over gay crazy about her. She was my first love, and even if she isn’t my last, part of me will always be irrevocably, unabashedly hers.





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