first kiss

I was at youth group with my best friend Richard. We put our arms around each other’s shoulders and swayed along to the slow worship songs. I felt the lyrics form deep below his back and was sure I was close to God. Everyone touched each other during worship in those days. The laying on of hands. It was nice. Everyone likes to be touched, makes you feel a part of something, makes you feel the connection to God has to be real if people are touching the shoulders of strangers over it.

After the last song, the worship leader slung the guitar behind his back, spread his right hand across his chest, reached his left hand over the congregation of middle-schoolers, and prayed that we be touched by the ensuing message, that our souls be shaped by it, that we be open to the Word of the Lord. Then Pastor Phil took the stage, giving the worship leader a low five on the way.

He asked us how we were feeling and told us to give the sign of peace to the folks around us. “Tell someone you love ‘em!” he shouted into the microphone, and I told Richard, meaning it truly. I loved him; we were close as brothers. He returned the statement, and I turned to the freckled girl next to me whom I had only seen a couple of times before, had never met. Her glasses were big, and her hair was long. I thought she was very beautiful. I told her I loved her. Jesus says you’re supposed to love everyone, and so I loved her. She said thanks.

When the sermon began in earnest, Richard and I were rapt. Pastor Phil dazzled us with well-reasoned arguments for the faith. He transitioned into the meat of the sermon: the damage of sexual sin. We were in middle school, after all, and needed to hear it, lest our bodies be subject to the whims of Satan. He told us to be careful what we allowed into our eyes, because the eyes were windows to the heart. He addressed pornography more directly, and premarital sex. Then he met my eyes alone. He said that we must not give into the tide of culture. He said that homosexuality was a sin, and one which would land the sinner directly in Hell upon death. He didn’t take his eyes from me until he changed the subject again. When his eyes moved on, I found myself looking around to see if anyone had noticed, and Richard was looking at me, his eyes fearful. He never talked during a sermon, taking care to mind the preacher, but now his mouth was open, and he was saying he hoped he wasn’t gay; he didn’t want to go to Hell.

“Me too,” I said, as Phil began explaining the intermediary for all sins, the name by which every person, no matter his vice, was saved. Richard wasn’t listening to Pastor Phil. He was still looking at me, breathing somewhat heavily. “How do we know?” he whispered. I told him it was just something you knew, I guess. Off the cuff I said, “there’s really only one way to know. His eyes widened. He said he had to know. He couldn’t leave the building unsure.

After the sermon we gave our friends side-hugs, tore off our nametags and snuck behind the church. In the shadow of the building I felt his hands on my side. His never-shaved stubble grazed my chin, and his lips touched mine. He put his fingers in my hair and tilted my head to the side, and I opened my mouth to give him room. After ten seconds I closed my mouth. He released my head and stepped backwards one step. “I guess we’re gay,” he said sadly. I said I guessed so. With about a yard between us, we walked back to the front of the building where Richard’s mother was waiting in her grey minivan. She told him to get in, and asked where he’d been. “Just taking a walk with Sam,” he said. “Had to talk through some stuff.” She said hello, and I greeted her back. “Bye, Sam,” said Richard without emotion. His eyes were confused. I told him bye.

While I was waiting for my ride, I sat away from the other kids, wondering what the big deal was with kissing. It felt scary to have kissed someone finally, and for it to have been Richard. I sat with my head in my hands, looking at my feet. It felt scary being gay and knowing my fate after death was sealed. Another pair of legs strode into my field of vision. I looked up. It was the girl on the other side of me during the worship service. “Thanks for saying that in there,” she said. In the distance a name was called. She looked behind her at the row of cars where a man was leaning out the window of a blue sedan. “Sheila!” her father called again. The girl yelled that she’d be right there.

Shelia turned back to me and repeated her thanks. I couldn’t say anything. My mind was everywhere, and she was beautiful. I saw her freckled face lean in and felt her kiss my cheek. She pulled back and smiled. I didn’t say anything, but smiled bigger than I ever had. A chaperone came by and told her that wasn’t acceptable behavior. She giggled and ran off towards the sedan. My heart was beating 1000 beats per minute as the chaperone said to himself, “well, I guess it could be worse,” and waddled away. 

the time i picked up a daywalker

I was at Manifest Discs shopping for pop punk CDs at 16 years old. I flipped through the Punk section (you could tell it was the punk section because a drawing of a safety pin on neon green construction paper was elevated above the rack on a popsickle stick), found a few suitably angsty records, and made my way towards the register. The woman behind the register smirked as she scanned the CD cases. She was wearing a leather jacket with patches and spikes, camo pants, and pink hair. I smiled at her, but she just wanted to know if I would be paying in cash or credit. I didn't carry cash, so I told her I'd be using my debit card, and again she smirked.

I was parked on the far side of the parking lot, near busy South Boulevard. I saw that the vehicles in the right lane of traffic going south was swerving into the next lane to avoid a broken-down Chevy. Poor guy was about a quarter mile down the sidewalk, so I walked up to him to see if he needed a ride anywhere, maybe to an auto parts store and back, maybe home. A woman walked by as we had our conversation. He didn't need a ride, but he thanked me and shook my hand. He was dressed well, and I noticed his cuff-links, made with some black jewels.

I jogged back to my car, passing the woman who had passed our conversation on the sidewalk. "You could give me a ride, if you wanted." I turned to look at her. She was attractive but looked sunk. Approaching middle age, she was wearing a low tank-top and jean shorts, walking in high heels on a busy Charlotte road in broad daylight. I said all right and led her to my car.

My passenger seat was rarely free of debris. I had to move some books and bags to the back seat to make room for the woman. Among the books were my Biology 101 textbook and my ESV Bible. I heard her breath in my ear. She climbed in; I closed the door on her carefully and walked around the back of the car. Once inside, I unwrapped one of the CDs, put it in the CD player, adjusted the volume to a moderate level, and asked her where to. "Where to?" she parroted. I repeated myself. "Well...turn right, I guess." Her voice was gravely, and I could tell she was a heavy smoker.

We cruised down South Boulevard a couple miles, and I asked which lane I should be in. She raised a penciled eyebrow at me. "Turn right." It seemed like a strange place to turn, but I did, and during the turn she put her hand on my knee, slowly dragging it up my leg. She gave me some more seemingly random directions, and I noticed we were passing many secluded buildings outside the normal patrol of law enforcement. I noticed also that we were passing the same buildings every few turns, circling South Boulevard like one caught in a whirlpool. Her fingers were cresting my inner thigh when I realized the woman was a prostitute. It was then that I informed her of my age.

Her hand changed course immediately, as did the nature of her directions. In minutes we were outside a dingy apartment, and she was thanking me for the ride. She and her girlfriend were just going to start a movie upstairs. Did I want to come? I answered no very feebly, my hand gripping the five-speed like a lifeline. Come on, all it would cost me was time. Again I politely declined, and she changed her hips towards the concrete stairwell, smiling back at me on her way.

I peeled out of the complex, turned back onto South Boulevard, and was almost immediately pulled over. The officer cowboyed over to my half-rolled-down window and asked through his mustache if I knew why he had stopped me this evening. I spluttered that it was a misunderstanding. He was afraid it wasn't. His hand slipped down to his belt, just outside of my field of vision. Was he reaching for his gun? The following three seconds were as long as his stache. His gloved fingers returned to my field of vision clutching a pink ticket pad. I saw he was grinning. "Didn't use your blinker, kid."

how i get girls

Here's how I get girls.

I bumble up to the bar, say hello to the bartender (whom I know because I am an alcoholic,) order the same thing I always order, and compliment an article of the bartender's clothing. I pull the book out of my back pocket and ask the bartender to put the Blue Jays game on one of the televisions. I pull the pen from behind my ear, adjust the douchey backwards baseball cap, open the book, and unroll the piece of wide-ruled notebook paper which serves as a bookmark. It has a lot of markings on it, but most of them are crossed out. I try to write a poem, fail, and look at the book, just look at it. I'm trying to read, but I can't, because I can't stop thinking about something, work or the poem now crossed out on my bookmark. Then the girl three seats down asks what I'm reading. I don't tell her I'm not reading, I tell her the name of the book that's open on the hardwood bar. She says she's never heard of it, what is it? Poetry. She loves poetry. What sort of poetry does she like? Slam poetry. I look at her, she's out of my league. I start actually reading, but she's still talking. Do I like slam poetry? Sure, used to write it. Really, can I perform a bit for her? No, I can't remember anything, everything is all a haze. That's poetic. She goes to the bathroom, and the bartender pours me another drink. I can see through it, the liquid warps the wood knots prevalent in the bar-top. The bartender is checking some electronic device under the counter. My phone is in the car, and I long for it, but I don't want to get up. It's a busy bar.

The girl returns from the bathroom as I turn a page. I see that she is very attractive. I look down at my expansive stomach, shrugging. She sits in the seat next to mine and the bartender drags her 20 oz beer glass in front of her and smiles at both of us. They call the 20 oz glasses "imperial" here, which I guess is a sophisticated way of saying supersized. When I drink beer, which isn't often anymore, I reject the offer of an imperial glass (for just one dollar more!) because I can't track myself as well as I can when I drink pints. I end up getting drunk and driving anyway, just because I don't know I'm really drunk until I'm halfway home. She asks more questions about me, which I answer quietly, shortly. Then I send some questions her way. She talks about her exes. I like talking to her, but she intimidates me because she is beautiful and well spoken. She probably likes my eyebrows. They're expressive, about twice the width of normal guy-brows, and fuller. My best quality for certain. What am I doing this weekend? Nothing, what is she doing this weekend? Nothing. Long pause. Would it be rude if she asked for my number? No. Can she have my number? No, but I'm already tearing off a piece of my ratty notebook paper to write it down. She laughs, pulls out her iPhone, and calls me on the spot. I explain that my phone is in the car. That seems to turn her on. I hear the automated voicemail tell her to leave a message at the beep. She says her name and spells out her phone number. "Eight, zero, three..."

The Blue Jays tie it up in the eighth, and I hoop. She smiles at my excitement, and I notice she has curly black hair. I want to touch it, but I reach for my glass instead. It sweats all over my fingers, and I wipe the residue on my jeans. Through the ninth inning she texts and I watch my game. After the Jays are finished losing, I ask for my bill. (Why do people call it a check?) I hear two things at the same time: the receipt paper being torn and the girl's voice. I have to ask her to repeat herself. Can she have a ride home? She's just down the street. On our way out the door, the bartender winks at me. I smile faintly.

We get in my car, and "Africa" is playing. She loves this song. I turn it up and she shouts directions at me. By the world famous drum fill, we're outside of her house. Would I like to come inside? The house is big, and she explains on a stoop in a whisper that it belongs to her parents, who are in there, hopefully sleeping. They won't like her having a boy over. How old is she? Old enough to drink. I see her car in the parking lot with a college parking sticker on it and am comforted. She opens the door and we creep upstairs. In her bedroom she turns soft music on and starts touching my chest. I touch her back and push her towards me, my fingers worked up in her hair. We kiss, and it's too wet at first, but not for long. Her hands aren't on my chest anymore, but they haven't made it to my belt. My hands haven't moved, but my fingers are flexing through her coarse hair into the fabric of her shirt. Then I hear her bedroom door slam open, and we both look. Her brother, maybe 12, 13, is standing there in his pajamas ogling at us. He immediately starts screaming, and it sounds like a train whistle.

There's movement down the hall, the sound of her parents stirring. She calls after me that I should text her later as I pass her brother, round the corner, take the stairs four at a time, and make for the front door. The kid is right behind me, screeching, matching my steps somehow with his short legs. He's on my tail as I reach the front door and find it locked. In my panic, it doesn't occur to me that all I have to do is undo the padlock. By the time I figure that out, the boy has his arms clamped around my leg and a deeper male voice is calling from the landing. As the mustached face appears from behind a corner, I fling the front door wide, peel the screaming kid from my leg with some difficulty, and run to my car. I gun it and soon I'm on the interstate in relative safety. I check my phone. No missed calls.

Sam