All these years later, I still recall her name, that
slightly plump well-endowed redhead who embraced me at age 16.
I still recall the taste of her lips, not from slipstick,
but from chewing gum, and how her eyes glinted when I – dressed in the uniform
of theater usher – asked her to come upstairs to the balcony with me, where we
huddled in the darkest corner and where she let me slip my fingers between the
buttons of her blouse for my finger feel, so soft except for the very tips, and
let me put my fingers in down below, so moist, so sticky, yet I never wanted to
wash it off, her kiss not my first kiss, and yet one that lingers still in
memory, against which all later kisses needed to compare, only very few did.
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