Flashback

The first boy whose penis I ever touched--without the marginal barrier of a pair of green nylon athletic shorts--is married, with two children, to the girl he started dating a week after I broke up with him.

He was also the first boy to give me a hickey. Four of them. And I almost killed him for it.

We were in his bedroom. His little brother kept walking in on us as we made out on his beat-up old couch, but we finally managed to lock him out and, giggling, rolled off of the couch and onto the floor.

"Ouch!" I muttered as he rolled on top of me. "Your keys!"

"What?"

"Your keys. They're digging into my hip."

He fumbled around for a second before responding "I'm not wearing my keys, they're over there on the dresser."

"Oh, nevermind then..." I tried to hide my wincing as we continued sloppily making out on his floor.

Of course it wasn't his keys.

It was his penis.

Why is it that boys, as soon as they get an erection, feel an irresistible urge to grind it into the tenderest area of your hip joint? It may feel nice to them--indeed, rubbing up against a lamppost would probably feel just as pleasant--but I am getting nothing from this other than a nagging concern as to what I will tell my mother when I come home with a limp.

From there things progressed as I imagine they always do at this age. I pry him off my neck a few times, explaining that hickeys are NOT sexy, they are broken blood vessels (thank you, "Who's the Boss" for teaching me that little lesson), and then his hand slowly begins to push my hand lower... and lower... and... oh! So that's what you want me to do! Well now, that's not very difficult, I think I can manage... oh, but my arm is starting to get tired. Is this really that exciting for you? And what are you...? Oh! Well that's interesting, but really, I can do better by myself...

And then his little brother began banging on the door, and I retreated to the bathroom to ponder having rounded another proverbial base, and examine the four motherfucking hickeys that were going to look simply fabulous against the bright red and black of my cheerleading uniform the following day at school.

A few weeks later I broke up with him. I'd like to say something profound like "oh, somehow I just knew it wasn't meant to be..." but really, it was much simpler than that. After the initial thrill of holy-shit-he-likes-me-too!! and now-I-have-a-boyfriend!-WOW!! had worn off, my anti-PDA nature began to surface and the way he hung all over me in public started to irk me.

So I told him I needed a break... which, in 14-year-old-girl-speak, means "I need a few weeks to get my shit together, but I totally expect you to be here when I come to my senses... or get lonely and realize I miss you."

He, however, seemed to have missed that memo. And roughly a week later was dating another girl in my class--a girl who walked to class with us every afternoon, on which same walk I discovered they were now an item.

I must admit, I was a bit offended that the mourning period had been so brief.

But now, knowing they are married, and have children, and their family photos on Facebook are so cute it kinda makes my teeth ache?

Well, that takes the sting off. Just a little.

Funny how these things work out.