I can't remember exactly when it happened, but we graduated at some point. We went from the shy limits of new lovers to naughty children alone in an attic. Not every time, by any means, but when we had time on our hands, do you remember how we used to go from sweet, gentle vanilla loving to that urgent, adrenaline buzz fest as we pushed each other toward the land of taboos, soaring high as kites on the filthy wonder of it all?
I was very much in love with you, and nothing about you ever put me off, once we got to that deep place. Even if I walked into the room unexpectedly after you'd just passed wind, I wasn't repelled. I mean, I didn't exactly like it, but I did like that we remained polite and didn't talk about it, both accepting that this had happened and that it was OK. Actually, as I recall it now, I really liked how you'd come to me for a reassuring hug, that strange little smile of embarrassment on your face and your eyes kind of wide. We'd just stand there in each others' arms, and let things be, the smell would leave us and we were so content together! Who would have thought that a fart could actually be romantic?