Guest Vignette by: Sheyenne Brown
A warm breeze blew as the boy I had been crushing on all summer was hanging out of his window, shirtless, with no muscle definition to speak of, but a beautiful sun-kissed complexion and curly hair. He had his weight on his arms so that he could be erect while he shouted: “You don’t want to die a VIRGIN, do you?” It was a sunny fall day.
It was also the day the towers fell. While everyone was worrying about finding loved ones and terrorist attacks reaching the Bronx, he saw an opportunity to capitalize on fear. I often wonder if that trait took him far in life. We had been flirting all summer the way recently turned teenagers flirt; awkwardly and with insults. That day, I wore a jean jacket, a black dress and some fresh white and blue uptown Nikes (school had just started so naturally I was looking fresh to death). As I passed his house with my girls, I giggled and tried to sound sassy in response to his question, but he was right. I actually did not want to die a virgin. At that point, death was palpable and imminent. Images of bodies flailing to their deaths on television, my mother in bed sleeping the day away because she couldn’t cope with reality; a condition I had never seen her in. Not dying a virgin seemed to be the one thing I had some control over.
It didn’t happen until December 27th, and it was void of any feelings, technique or kissing. In truth, I didn’t have my first kiss until two years later. The reasons changed by that time; no longer afraid I would die but more afraid I would suck when I finally was ready to have sex with a guy I loved. I wonder though, if he hadn’t thrown that gauntlet when he did, would I be the awesome lover I am now?
I kid. A little.
No comments:
Post a Comment