When I was 9, I began documenting my crush on the spiky-haired boy from my homeroom. “Rocco is cute. I want to sex him,” I’d written in my holographic Lisa Frank notebook, not fully grasping what sex even meant. In my PG-rated world, sex was just kissing. It was two people fusing at the lips until someone got bored and went to unload the dishwasher. From that point on, I, Read More
From Huffington Post