I had my first crush at age 5.

Though I was a virgin well into adulthood, whose lips had never quite been brushed, I credit my curious older cousins and MTV for an early sexual awakening. I became aware of sex, crushes, and necrophilia around the level of first grade. Similar to Santa Claus, I'm not sure exactly when I found out, but I like to think I was always aware.

My mom blamed her divorce and the short relationships that followed for my lack of interest in romance. She said that she was guilty of never providing my brother and I a “solid foundation” for a home life. My father and she fought frequently, and their marriage lasted the toddler years of our childhood.

But I couldn’t blame them, it was probably for the best in terms of a healthy home. My father started working for the railroad for a hefty salary increase, but he had to leave town for a week at a time. My mother had grueling office hour days, so my brother and I spent our days in daycare, where we learned how to socialize.

I couldn’t recall the name but this one particular daycare had a really juvenile way of disciplining the kids anytime they wet their pants or didn’t listen. All the kids would round up in a circle, the perpetrator sat in the middle, and the other children would run up and pretend to act as “dinosaurs”, attacking the poor kid.

I had been the victim of the “dinosaur dance” once, and the five-year-old me tried to hold back the tears that dripped down my face afterward. I glanced over at the boy I had been trying to impress the weeks before and experienced my first humiliation when his little eyebrows creased toward my way.

Of course, at this age, it might be considered puppy love before a developed emotion, if it could be described as even that, but my very first crush was the most important. The little boy was enthusiastic about playing “Power Rangers” and insisted on being the red ranger. That’s what I liked about him so much, he was naturally a leader.

He was taller than me, if only a few centimeters, and wore his favorite colors of red and blue, often paired with a shirt and plain shorts. The black hair on his head kept its baby-softness and fell gently down his forehead and cradled his ears. I longed to stroke his head.

The humiliation of being ravaged by snot-nosed kids had long been forgotten by the next day. I sat obediently in the daily circle we formed before recess, eager to get outside and act out a scheme to catch the attention of my crush.

My eyes darted around the room, searching for him among the kids who were slowly assembling our circle. They seemed to move a bit slower today. We were almost all lined up when I finally spotted him sitting crisscross on the floor, toothy grin as usual.

And then I noticed he was wearing a dress.

Years later, before coming to terms with my sexuality, I denied that it meant anything. I seemed to do this a lot. Deny my curiosity, deny the idea of being anything other than a straight female, ignore the strange feeling when my openly gay friend would flirt with me, forget about the time my friend kissed my neck in the girl’s bathroom.

I was afraid of being seen as dirty, or butch, or an openly sexual being. When the idea crept in the back of my mind, I quickly waved the thought away with a swift, “Nah, I like boys.”

All I knew was the confusion after the reveal of my first crush being a girl. I clearly mistook her for a boy, it was an honest mistake. It wasn’t until I considered the thought of being attracted to women when I remembered, the reveal of my crush's true gender didn't keep me from continuing to have feelings.