We made love in a tiled womb for the first time.

Not an oohahgodfasterImcomingImcomingImcoming, but made love in kissing whispers and reading skin, a shy promise of his, wriggling in softly into a quiet mauve yes.

He inched his way in beseechingly. He kept silent and steady, so afraid to hear the sound of paper ripping. I was scared too. I could feel myself stretching, almost just like how I imagined giving birth would feel like.

He inched his way into me, and for every other half, he slipped out. We kept at it, figuring out how we would best fit like puzzle pieces, leaning against walls, bending at hinges. We soon found ourselves seated, one on the other, one in the other.

He was huge and deep and strong and shy inside, like the way the cosmos is. Odd, the way my body could hold the universe in. It was too dark; I couldn’t remember what we looked like joined down there, but my fingers had a hard time believing how snug he fit into me.

From then on, we both fell quiet.

And after that, we remembered the world still needed to turn whether or not we needed to make love. So we wriggled ourselves loose, put ourselves together, and went back to being mortals.