Is there any other kind?
I was fourteen when it began. I was a nice girl. Well, we all are, aren’t we, at first? He was the boy all the girls were in love with. I admired him from afar but never dreamed I’d have a chance with him. One day I was helping out backstage at the playgroup concert. He was there. It turned out his Mum knew my Mum.
The next day he sat next to me in music class. I was so excited I could hardly breathe. Halfway through Mr Thurley’s daily drone, he put his hand on my knee. My thigh. Slipped it under the hem of my gymslip. This was not right. What had happened to my white knight, my talkative boy? The hand crept higher. I squirmed and pressed my legs together. After a while the hand gave up and withdrew.
That night I lay in bed and wondered: was that what was supposed to happen? What was wrong with me that something I would have fantasized about if I could have brought myself to imagine it, had, in reality, turned out to be such a letdown? I told myself it was just as well to find out what kind of person he was before getting involved with him. I told myself I’d made a lucky mistake. I told myself I was right to be sensible and prim.
But I still wonder what kind of kisser he was.