Twenty-year-old Tweens

My first kiss that counted --
the first pair of
lady lips I latched onto --
was stolen.
We were both good
little Christian girls --
young adults, really --
who had accidentally
started to fall in love.
She drove seven hours south
to spend seven summer days with me,
with my parents' blessing.

Little did they know --
little did we know --
that the previous months of
late-night, collegiate
cuddling and snuggling
would culminate in
lesbian lip-lock at last.

Interwoven on my twin bed
like a French braid,
I leaned in closely
and whispered,
"What would you do if I
kissed you?"
Half taken aback
and half titillated,
she returned my whisper,
"I don't think you should do that."

A split second later,
in my childhood bedroom,
I snatched a kiss
from her full, light brown lips,
as soft and as supple
as a baby's hand.

I leaned back to read
her facial response.
She looked
half shocked and
half pleased.

"You're a good kisser,"
I reported, as the
endorphins surged through my
twenty-year-old tween self.
"You're not so bad yourself,"
she admitted with a sly smile.