How Young Is Too Young To Touch the Pussy

I had a girlfriend when I was 5 years old. I say girlfriend because I got a kiss and I’m pretty sure I slipped some tongue and got a hard on doing so. Her name was Michelle. Or Monica. Or Monique. I haven’t seen her since we were kids, but I still remember the afternoon we spent together hiding in the cabinets while her mom and my aunt Karla talked the day away in the living room. Even the worst prude would agree that my first foray with the felines was far from felonious in comparison to the first time I played hide and seek with Naomi.

My family lived in a shelter with hers when I was in the second grade. I remember she had a brother named Hassan because the Minnesota Vikings had a player named Hassan Jones and for some reason that urged me to think of Naomi as Naomi Jones and that just got my heart and stomach full of feelings I had never felt before. The first time I ever saw her, we gazed upon each other through the adjacent windows to the rooms each of our families inhabited. I thought I loved Monique or Monica but I knew I loved Naomi.

Life in the shelter was rushed. People were moving and changing rooms constantly and it was rare to see the same face for more than a few weeks. So when Naomi and I saw each other in the playroom one day, I cornered her inside a big building block with triangle shaped windows. We shooed her brother away to the television with the other kids and began petting and kissing as we alternated between stupid glances and keeping lookout for adults. I slid my hand onto the top of her pants the heat form her privates penetrated through her underwear.

She wore tight underwear, if it were not for that, I surely would have gotten my hand past her pelvis before we were rustled to reality by the approaching footsteps of the babysitter.

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