Skin is Skin

He came to work for my family’s farm. They sent him to my school and he lived at our house. Coming of age, we explored each other's bodies in secret, I had always wanted to be a woman. He was the one, the man who never saw me as anything but human. He was a ‘straight’ man, as it seemed, the body of a marble statue. Gender never played a role, unless we wanted it too. We met up almost by schedule on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I can still smell him. He wanted me as I came, it was purely physical; our minds never met on a deeper level. Neither did we need to. It was sex. We played out our own coming of age fantasies with each other and it was hot, radical and everything but the boyfriend I wanted. When I told him I wanted to be a girl, he said simply he wanted to be inside of me as a woman. Obsessed, we investigated our sexuality constantly and savagely exploited our excitement in one another’s bodies as if it was the first sip of a fine bodied wine, until one day, I left, no word. I was gone for a year or so and found my rhythm. When I came home, I saw him again and I was terrified to encounter him. To see his ‘you shot yourself’ gaze in me. I had changed a lot. He remained the same. It was physical, and to him, skin is skin. I left and as far as I know, so did he.