By Axel Jordan
The boys’ bathroom always smelled like a
combination
of sweat & soap that didn’t quite work
and paper towels that tore too easily.
Fluorescent lights humming overhead.
Tile floors cold even through sneakers.
Voices echoing from the hallway
just beyond the door.
We were in detention together that week,
two boys pretending not to notice
how often we looked at each other.
He was already out.
I was not.
He carried himself like someone
who had already crossed a bridge
I was still afraid to approach.
One afternoon, between assignments,
we found ourselves alone
by the paper towel dispenser.
No music.
No dramatic moment.
Just a pause
that felt larger than the room.
Then he kissed me.
Quick.
Soft.
Careful, like he wasn’t sure
if I would disappear.
I remember pulling back at first
fear arriving before any sort of understanding.
Then something else arrived too.
Recognition.
Relief.
A quiet yes I didn’t yet know how to
speak.
So I kissed him back.
Not long.
Not deep.
Just enough
to change something inside me.
We laughed after.
Nervous.
Young.
Alive in a way that felt both impossible
and completely natural.
For a moment,
the world outside that bathroom
did not exist.
Just two boys
standing under horrible fluorescent
lights,
holding a secret
that felt more like truth
than anything we had been taught.
That was my first kiss with a boy.
Not romantic in the way movies
promise.
Not dramatic.
Not perfect.
But real.
And gentle.
And ours.
This piece is from The Feminist Toilet #3. To return to the table of contents, click here.
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