Dating my neighbors mom

At the top of a hill that overlooked Seattle, Carrie and I roamed in and out of back alleys, eating fruit that had fallen from neighbors’ trees.Ripe juice dripped down our arms, staining our cutoffs red.They played the Indigo Girls on their stereo, danced around their kitchen, and talked about summer solstice as casually as my mother discussed the church bake sale.I only went back to my house to sleep, escaping out the back door every morning before my dad could catch me.There were no chairs in the breakfast nook, or around the dining room table.I wandered through the house, past empty closets and vanity drawers that now held only the crumbs of blue eyeshadow and pencil shavings.Please add a one-time donation to help fund our most urgent campaigns to fight discrimination and expand LGBTQ rights.Remember, 100% of your purchase fuels the fight for LGBTQ equality and makes you an active member of the Human Rights Campaign.

Trips to the lake, meals out at local restaurants or crowding around their kitchen table for pizza; I took for granted that I was included.Signed out of all sex education classes by my religious parents, I had no idea what was going on with my body.When short, curly hairs started appearing between my thighs I cut them off with craft scissors, stuffing them into the bathroom wastebasket.We prank-called the boys at school who’d made us cross our legs in class.We egged the neighbor’s house after she yelled at us for eating plums from her trees.

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