The two of us on a couch. Her head on my lap. My fingers in her hair and smiling eyes almost obscured by my own breasts. Innuendo galore. The look in her eyes when she told me to follow her. The strange nervous thick anticipation as we barely held hands and then she closed the door and asked me if I would kiss her....

Men will never truly know the sweet strange magic that happens when two girls kiss for the first time. Girls think their kisses out like poems too sublime for words and perform them carefully and thoughtfully. Her lips were sweet and small and our tongues swirled and twisted in what started out as schoolgirl giggles and turned into an exchange of just a little bit more than everything we were to each other. She was small in my arms and I was a little bit taller than her, and she tasted of all of the Tori Amos songs we both loved at the time.

Afterwards we looked in the mirror and my ruby-pink lipstick was smeared on her face and made me laugh, and she was nervous and had no idea how much that meant that I loved every second of that kiss, and wanted it again. When we went back out to where the rest of the world was, there was a sparkle of shared secrets in our eyes as we sat just a little bit closer to each other than we had before.

So every time I go to a coffeehouse, I am taken back and taken aback. I love coffeehouse girls. They have tattoos in places you can barely see, piercings, short dyed hair or those hippie-bandana things, slow, confident, hip-swaying walks. They wear combat boots, bead and hemp necklaces and bracelets, double tank tops, and you can see their mismatched bra straps peeking out from underneath. They smoke, they write in corrugated-cardboard bound notebooks with colored pens, they have read Syliva Plath and Jack Kerouac, they have kissed girls before.

I love them for all of these things, and all of the things left unnamed.