When I was a teenager, I worried about summer sex. I worried about humidity and bad hair, about wilting with sweat. I wanted things to be climate-controlled. Organized. When I had sex, I wanted to be powdery and perfumed. This was the only version of myself I perceived as sexy. I didn’t understand the allure of a messier version of things, the beauty of bed-head or boys wanting to touch me after I’d played soccer. I still had a romp or two in the dewy grass because it felt too good to pass up—but I fretted about it.
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