Are You Kinseying Me?

So if I pretend that the implications behind this realization I came to this month would not ever come to fruition, then I would be brave enough to admit that I prefer women over men. Or rather, I prefer what I've experienced with them so far.

Whenever I kiss men, it's pleasant enough. I'm not one to complain about soft lips. I'm not saying that kissing men feels like a chore; there can be something sexy about contrasting body types pressed against each other--my curves and their angles, all that jazz. I just don't think I could accurately describe how much more wonderful it is to have a girl in your lap with one of her hands tangled in your hair and the other thumbing the the neckline of your shirt. There's such an abundance of sheer softness that you don't do know what to do with it so you let it fall around you, tumble on you, caress you.

When she leans forward to silence your nervous small-talk and strokes the bare skin on your shoulders, there's no way you could possibly compare that to some tall, muscular thing cornering you against the wall with his breath in your face. You can giggle and tell her you've watched her all semester long in class, and she can say the exact same thing in the exact same way. You're raring to get her naked, but you'd also be perfectly happy just to tug at the hem of her skirt and nuzzle her collarbone without expecting things to take a turn for the decidedly sexier. Kissing her (touching her) feels so different and yet so familiar.

Or how about when the girl you've watchedwantedwaited on for so damn long finally finally takes your hand and pulls you to her for a dance, her eyes not quite settled on you because even she doesn't know yet if she's sure. Her breasts are pressed against you, and her hands are on your hips, and your heart's in your throat, and you're convinced you've never felt so on edge, so on the precipice of something fucking enormous and life-altering that you could scream. Sure, you've had your eye on men before, and sometimes a certain few wanted you back. They stare at you from across a crowded room, and five seconds later, you're swapping spit with them on the couch. Did it ever feel like this? Did it ever feel as satisfying, as overwhelming, as when she looked at you, questioning, wondering, suspecting?

Did it come even remotely close?