Cubby House

We strung up sheets and towels

and anything we could find from the side of his bed. Together we made a cubby house. The room was lit with a warm light shining from his lamp. On the inside, I felt the same colour as the room was lit. I felt warm. We had sex underneath all of the poorly hung up sheets and pillows and towels. I remember smirking, continually. Each time my eyes would open and look up, they were reminded that we were engulfed in a linen castle. Eventually, our sheet fortress slowly started to sink and creep down atop of us. The sheet tickled the back of his neck. Our cubby house was now a big blue cocoon for the both of us. That’s where my memory ceases. When I think back on this now, I do not think about how ‘special’ it may seem. Or the fact that it could be special because I was with this one particular boy. No. The moment was not an uncommon one. It was not an immensely unique moment. It was not particularly pretty. I would not describe it as innocent. We knew exactly what we were doing. For those reasons; the last word I could use to describe this moment or memory is ‘special’. I would like to describe it as spotless. It was neat. Clean and honest. I would like another spotless moment right now.