Ok, so here it is, the final exciting installment of the saga "First Love"
I DO think you'll enjoy it.
life is short, play naked!
Corijezmi
Saturday July 3, 2004 4:22 pm
F i r s t L o v e ... part 3
For my 9th birthday party I had a slumber party an a gaggle of girls showed up, presents and sleeping bags in tow. No boys here, it was strictly a double X chromosome gathering. I remember the angel food cake with whipped cream and strawberries. The ice cream, chips and popcorn. I remember we listened to the radio and when “Ghostbutsters” came on we all leapt to our feet and danced and sang the chorus to each other. Late into the evening we were still giggling as only little girls at a slumber party can. We played truth or dare, and laughed, we put our heads close together and in loud whispers, poured out our fondest dreams and childhood woes, late into the night we talked, doling out our deepest, darkest, girlish secrets.
Indelibly imprinted in my memory was that moment when I was hit with a flash of startling insight. Despite the very real affection I had for these girls, the true and in some ways very close friendships I'd formed after five years of school together, I knew I couldn't tell them my most cherished secret. I was suddenly convinced that these tittering children couldn't possibly understand how I felt about Rose. What did they know of such powerful tumultuous feelings? Sure a few them spoke of crushes and 'liking' boys, but I knew with absolute certainty those shy awkward exploration into the world of boys paled before the brilliant and rapidly heating feelings I had for my best friend. I yearned to unburden myself, share with someone other than Rose this weight that seemed to grow heavier by the day. I desperately wanted to tell these smiling, beautific pixies clustered around me, bedecked in rosy pink, lilac and baby blue nightgowns, eyes shining. But in that moment I knew; there was a sundering, immediate and visceral, I wouldn't tell, couldn't tell, they could never understand. I was surrounded by people but without warning I felt completely and utterly alone, suddenly isolated and as different from these girls as Lilly's are from carburetors. It felt as if this invisible, intangible thing, this heat and want I carried around in my chest would forever differentiate me from my peers. I couldn't tell them my secret and it would hold me apart for a many long years to come.
As the months rolled by my ardor for my friend continued to expand as did Rose's-- noticeably. Our long talks all alone in my closet started to take on whole new undercurrents and possibilities. It even had a separate entrance (if you call a small window an entrance). On any given summer's afternoon we could go dunk ourselves in the pool then climb in the window and have another of our now infamous talks, and talk we did.
My feelings of attraction for Rose grew and it seemed in near equal proportion my confusion and conflict receded. This was my friend, my best friend, my confidant, my mentor, my play mate, why not romantic interest? I thought of him often, dreamed of him, found myself fantasizing about him in quite moments or while I should have been paying attention to my math lesson in school. Rose too was dreaming of me in that way. I knew because it was something we discussed at length. We'd slip into my closet, the space quiet and intimate and often messy. It was a simple thing to create agreeable lounging spots out of the carelessly tossed clothing (often time freshly laundered things my sister and I hadn't gotten around to putting away) and the winter blankets from off the shelf. We'd make a small pallet and sit comfortably side by side or make two seats and face each other close enough to touch, but not quite. A cozy sanctuary, a familiar haven for two young people to softly speak of private profundities.
As a girl I was renown for my back scratching skills. It was an art I practiced on my mother and shamelessly on Rose. He seemed to have a perpetually itchy back, and yet now as an adult, I realize that it probably had as much to do with being touched, as with relief from an irritant. I didn't mind, I liked touching him, the way he arched his back and practically purred. As this tension between us grew, the back scratching too took on whole new implications. The two of us alone for hours on end. We'd disappeared for hours into this space for so long not one thought a thing of it. He was often shirtless for our chat sessions, especially after we'd been swimming, or he'd removed his top for one of my delectable back scratches. So here we were two kids, who in some ways were forced to mature emotionally and socially well before their peers, alone, only partially dressed and speaking of this wondrous frightening thing building between us. Honestly it was a recipe for disaster, if something like this were to happen even a few years later, no doubt real trouble would have been the result. As it was, it seemed entirely natural, and despite the disproportionate maturity, we were STILL only a decade old.
Rose and I spoke of our nocturnal dreamscapes, our day time fantasies. A typical conversation could go something like this.
“Yea, so I had this one, where it was you and I sitting by this pond under this huge cherry tree, we'd had a picnic and now were just talking, you know like we do, and then I reached out and I held your hand, it just felt so good, the sky was a gorgeous blue and I told you a joke and you laughed and then, then I bent over and kissed you.” I was beyond blushing, but felt a warm interior glow at the thought, as I was caught up in the scene as he painted it for me, is voice low and a little bit husky. Sometimes he'd even take my hand when he spoke of it, and we effortlessly laced fingers, as if we'd always had our hands twined. I'd listen to him speak of kissing me and my lips would start to tingle, I wanted him to kiss me, wanted it badly but could never bridge that gap between speaking and do, the chasm seemed treacherous and deep. Instead I'd just nod at the soothing, oh so familiar sound of his voice, breathe deep the scent of him, a distinct muskiness I'd always loved. I'd nod and when he was through I'd respond with a school girl fantasy of my own that always ended in snuggling or kissing.
“That's a nice one. I had a dream the other night, one of those super vivid ones. We were outside on the trampoline, laying there and looking at the stars..." He nodded, and I went on quietly "I was just wearing the top half of a pair of red flannel pajamas and you were wearing just the bottoms. I was laying curled up against your side with my head on your chest. You had your arm around me..." I trailed off, then swallowed, my cheeks hot and something building with in me, some pressure, some hunger I couldn't quite identify, but couldn't put aside. Rose nodded again keeping his eyes on the patch of carpet just visible beneath our pallet of clothes and old pillows.
“And?” he prompted softly,
“And well, we were talking and star gazing and then you turned to look at me, and put one finger under my chin and tilted my face up to you and... and... you kissed me.” His cheeks were red too when he swallowed. I knew he felt it too, this pressure, this want, but all he said was
“Yea, thats a good one.”
I will never for get that fateful night, it was a Friday night right towards the end of the summer; those last few weeks when it suddenly occurred to children everywhere that they were in fact going to have to face school again and consequently crammed as much summer time fun in as possible.
In just such a frenzy my little brother Day decided to have someone sleep over. At the age of eight the once pestering inconvenience had become an infinitely more interesting person to spend time with. Consequently Rose and I had pretty much abandoned creating elaborate schemes to ditch him as a playmate. Periodically we even voluntarily included him in our adventures.
Turns out that this fateful Friday Day's normal playmate wasn't available. It was also a night where most of my family were off doing their own thing including my mother who was out Delivering some woman's baby (she was a midwife). My sister G.O. Was left in charge which meant she'd sulk in her room in the basement and console herself with having to suffer through baby sitting duties on a Friday evening with her Howard Jones and Oingo Boingo records. We'd see hide nor hair of her all night. Day still really wanted a sleep over, so with a little nudge from us he extended the invitation to Rose.
I don't know that my mother would have been fooled but G.O. Didn't question when we told her that it was an excursion we'd been planning for weeks and that mom had known all about it. Rose rushed back to his place for his sleeping bag and a board game. We talked and played with Day, but soon enough he was fast asleep in the other room. We retreated to the closet and in the muggy summer evening, Rose took off his shirt and requested a back scratch. I was only too happy to oblige.
The whole scene was so very familiar, it seemed we'd sat in the small room on countless evenings, I'd scratched his back numberless times. So many times in fact we'd invented a game for it. I'd write pictures and or words on his back with my fingernail and he'd have to guess what it was. On this balmy evening, things were different. My mom wasn't across the hall, my sister wasn't sleeping in the bunk bed in the other room. G.O. would stay walled up in her room for the rest of the night.
We were alone.
The tension and pressure between us had reached an almost unbearable level. The room was heavy with it, the moment so thick with emotion and expectation it was an almost tangible thing. I sat very close to Rose, shamelessly breathing in the fragrance of him as, I trailed my nails along his side, tickling him, before moving on to the next word in our game.
I couldn't help thinking of all the things we'd shared, of all the dreams and wanting and wishing. All the talk of kissing; I couldn't get my mind away from the mesmerizing pull of it, couldn't let go the image, or release the tingle on my lips at the mere thought of it.
I had to do something, this press and momentum were nearly oppressive. I wanted to say something, but my throat closed tight, my vocal cords refused to operate. We played our game in companionable but arduous silence. I'd scrawl the word onto his flesh and he'd guess, looking over his shoulder for confirmation and I'd nod or shake my head. I wanted to shout at him, beg him, KISS ME, kiss me, kiss me. I focused on the shape of his lips, and concentrated all my energy on making him hear me telepathically, willing him to hear my mute plea
Kiss me kiss me kiss me kissmkissmekissmekissme.
Finally in desperation I struck on an idea, I wrote a whole phrase on Rose's back, my cheeks crimson red, my breath quick. Normally we only did single words so he looked over his shoulder at me, raising his eyebrows in the classic 'what?' expression. I just bit my lower lip and did it again slower this time, softly, deliberately spelling out the words with my sharp nail on the skin of his back.
'Will you kiss me?' finally he half turned to face me and very softly his voice low and a little rough
“Is that what I think it is?”
I was terrified he'd laugh, but I'd gone this far, I'd born the near crushing weight of anticipation for weeks, months. The very air thrummed, and every fiber of me was stretched to the near breaking point. I'd been brave enough to ask, I'd finally dared step over that gaping chasm, there was no turning back now. Still my voice was completely absent, I couldn't have uttered a single word even under threat of life and limb. So I just nodded minutely.
I remember the way he looked me directly in the eye, his pupils huge, turning the baby blue irises into sapphire rings. The way he half turned to face me, twisting his bare torso, his right arm resting on his bent right knee. He gave me that charming half smile I'd come to know so well, a look of ironic humor, only this time it was more, this time there was more than wry amusement there, there was something else, something bold and a little reckless as if I'd just pronounced the final death defying challenge in a high stakes game of truth or dare. I'd dared him and he responded, with what I would as an adult interpret as a slyly sardonic and undeniably sexual look. He pinned me with his gaze and told me softly so softly,
“Sure.”
All the air was trapped in my lungs as he reached for me with his left hand, he reached for me and cupped my cheek, and tiny bolts of electricity arced along my skin at the contact. Time stood still, the world for that one moment ceased to rotate on its axis while Rose, my best friend, leaned close to me, my eyes focused on his lips, how red they looked, he leaned in further, so close our noses were nearly touching before his eyes slid half shut and I couldn't help my own doing the same. He put a little pressure on the cheek he held, pulling me infinitesimally closer, close enough to tenderly press his lips to mine. My world exploded into a flash of pure white bliss. He kissed me, Rose kissed me, I was dizzy, panting and breathless, he'd actually kissed me, my best friend in the whole wide world had kissed me and I would never again be the same.
That was our one and only kiss, Rose and I. The first boy I ever kissed. The first boy I ever loved. My lips saw no other action for years, six in fact, I was sixteen before someone once again put their lips on mine like that. I've had people tell me that because I was only ten years old, it didn't count. After reading this I'm sure you'll agree, it counted, oh boy did it count.
As for Rose and I, sadly I moved away two months into the Sixth Grade. I was heartbroken, but Rose and I kept in contact, mostly phone calls and information shared through our sisters. Years passed and we both grew up. The ardor that so inflamed me as a girl has long since cooled. I am happy to report, however that I still consider him one of my closest friends. We can pick up the phone and after years of no contact and it's as if we'd spoken just the day before, and can talk for hours on end.
Some things never change.
I'm not yet thirty and he's been my friend for more than two decades, the longest running relationship in my life (outside of my family that is). We're now both in happily committed relationships. Living out our lives contentedly in different parts of the nation.
Still there really is nothing like your first love.
