February 20, 2008
The First Girl


cydytame102.jpgThe First Girl had an apple-fresh name, like “Sue,” like “Annie,” like “Betty.” She looked like  a Holly Hobby doll, all shiny long russet hair and fair skin stippled with freckles. She was quiet and shy, so her self-assured pronouncements to me always came a kind of a shock, despite the fact that she made them rather regularly.

“Priscilla covers her insecurity with Sweet Honesty,” the First Girl said, linking a classmate and an Avon perfume that always smelled to me redolent of pineapples.

“Mr. O’Brien makes Elsinore seem like a medieval XHS,” she said, astutely joining the castle of Hamlet and the name of our high school.

“I think people aren’t heterosexual or gay. They’re just sexual,” she said, laying the foundation for our eventual hooking up.

“Hooking up” is, of course, an anachronism. In the late 1970’s, no one “hooked up,” at least not sexually. We “got together.” We “made out.” We even “got it on.” We only “hooked up” if we were buying drugs, which I never did. Drugs have never been my thing. My thing has been, of course, sex. Or ice cream. Sometimes it’s been exercise. But mostly, it’s been sex.

The First Girl and I had been friends since fifth grade when we met when our two rural grade schools conjoined in a union middle school. We continued our friendship into the union high school that our two towns bussed us to, along with kids from about four other townships. We weren’t best friends, but we were very good friends. The first girl gave me a copy of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours one year for Christmas. In vinyl, natch, because CDs were still about a decade  in the future and I didn’t own an 8-track.

We were friends, not best friends, but we hung out. (”Hanging out” is not an anachronism. We “hung out” in the 1970’s.) We hung out increasingly in Senior year because the Two Foxes, my two best friends, increasingly started to exclude me. I found myself a girl without a country, disliked by my classmates and given the cold shoulder by my crowd. I was lonely as hell and I found refuge in the snowy bosom of the first girl, who was kind enough to welcome me back to her fold even though I’d snubbed her during my flashy friendship with the Foxes.

It happened this way. It was the last night of 1979, December 31, New Year’s Eve. A new decade glimmered. Our graduation glowed on the horizon. It was New Year’s Eve, that night that is like a ship of time, neither here nor there and attached to nothing but expectation. It was New Year’s Eve, and I had nothing to do. Abandoned, alone, woeful and morose, steeped in showy self pity, I gladly snapped up the First Girl’s offer to go out with her in her father’s big American car and spend the night with her in her father’s big farmhouse. Somewhere, anywhere, I thought, something, anything, that is not my parents’ home.

We went out to some college bar in Burlington, Vermont. We drank copiously. I puked in the bathroom. We drank some more. We counted down the seconds to midnight. We left, welshing  on the check. We drove to the First Girl’s father’s home, underage, intoxicated, illegal. On the road, we talked, and I told the First Girl to pull the car over and we kissed.

It’s a cliché, but her lips were soft. It’s a dead metaphor, but they tasted like berries. It was exactly like what I’d imagined kissing a girl would be like and it, predictably, was not. We kissed, and after kissing for a while, the First Girl put the car in drive and we finished our wobbly ride home. I was mesmerized by the narrow beams of white light, black road top, and the palpable sexual promise pressing on me like invisible palms.

Soon, we were at the farmhouse. Soon we brushed out teeth and soon we were in bed. The room was cold-it was January in Vermont, and houses are as a rule underheated-and the sheets felt like snow. We wrapped ourselves around each other and kissed, clumsily.

Soon, the First Girl’s flannel nightgown was above her shoulders. Soon her breasts were in my drunk-fumbling fingers. Soon, she was saying to me, “I have one feature you don’t have,” and pointing me to a third nipple, brown and tiny, below her right breast. I kissed it.

Soon, though the bed was spinning, though my exhaustion was tugging me, though the First Girl too was flagging, soon I’d wriggled down, down, down the brief length of her body, and soon, I was pulling apart the lips of her Holly Hobby pussy, and soon I was licking it.

It was New Year’s. I was drunk. I had no idea what I was doing. I persevered, pushed as much by rampant curiosity as I was by my ever-present and unknowable horniness and my unflagging will to give pleasure. I tongue-fumbled and I finger-scrabbled at the First Girl’s genitals. It felt firm, squishy and wet, and it felt both equally familiar and alien. It was a landscape I knew with my own fingers, experienced from a perspective I’d never had. I was drunk.

I persevered, tongue, mouth, fingers. The bed spun and so did my thoughts, inchoate, garbled Halflings of ideas that fell fragmented and unformed. I tried my best, and it wasn’t very good.

After a polite interlude of time, the First Girl pulled me up by the armpits. She was tired, she said. It felt good, she said, but she was drunk, and she needed to sleep.

The First Girl had always been a very nice person.

We slept together, both touching and not, our bodies neither clasping nor rejecting each other. It was a body position that would serve as a metaphor for our future friendship. We’d never forget what we did, and we’d never flee from it, we never disconnected, but we never really connected again either. We were friends with a secret, and we were neither committed to that secret to reengage in it again, to take it up, cold and sober, and blow on it gently with our hot mouths until it grew, bulged effulgent and flowered, nor were we so horrified by it that we wanted to ice it over in frigid contempt.

We remained friends, touching but tenuous, this one night, spinning and dark with the kind of mysterious ineffable pleasure that both spinning and darkness can give, hanging in space between us.


Comments

One Response to “The First Girl”

  1. Apple » The First Girl on February 20th, 2008 5:14 pm

    […] Sappho’s Girls Blog wrote an interesting post today on The First GirlHere’s a quick excerptThe First Girl had an apple-fresh name, like “Sue,” like “Annie,” like “Betty…. […]

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