I fooled them all. Six times.
“The first time is the hardest,” they’d smiled, approaching me a small protrusion and a twitch in their eye.
“I hope I get one,” I’d say, and they’d think of some video they’d watched long after their mothers tucked them in.
“You will,” they’d whisper, and so it would go: thick breaths, long strokes, uneven vibrations.
“See?” they’d ask. “I told you it would be fine,” but their eyes say that they’re grateful it wasn’t worse.
I fooled them all with my gasps and smiles, for now I have six and they have none.