Every time I hear a song by Collective Soul – any song – I’m taken back to the summer I was sixteen. I went to my first concert with a sort-of friend. She desperately wanted more friends, and I didn’t know how to tell people no. I had never been to a concert, and the boy I liked was going.
I remember flirting and desperately wanting to be kissed by this boy. A wiry boy with sharp features, short hair, and a too-deep voice for such a young age. He could do things with his tongue and his hands that I had never experienced before, and I wanted him to keep doing those things to me.
That evening, while the band rocked on, he pressed himself into my backside. I could feel his hardness. I didn’t understand the moist desire between my thighs, but I liked what he made me feel. He wrapped his arms around my middle, and I pretended I knew what to do with what I felt prodding against the round underside of my ass.
A song came on the radio earlier this week, and I closed my eyes and remembered that feeling of being young, free, and wild. I was too young to understand what I felt nearly eighteen years ago, but now I know that I felt my femininity, the early bloom of the sexual being I am today, on that night with that young man. I can still feel the flush on my cheeks, the tightening of my nipples, the dryness in my mouth, the wetness in my core – and all that I need is a song.
Over the years, through good times and bad, whenever I hear Collective Soul, I smile, remembering a distant memory that still brings me secret pleasure.
Thank you, Wicked Wednesday, for giving me a reason to relive such delicious memories. I’ve carried that memory with me through many a tough road. Instead of pining for something I no longer have, I smile at the innocence and squirm with the desire.