For the fair month of May, I remember my very first kiss. It was magic – the perfect first kiss for any teenage girl.
He was floppy haired and funny, and considered relatively cool among band kids. We’d been “going out” for a week, holding hands in the hallway and leaning on each other after practice.
One afternoon, he walked me home, about a mile, a mile and a half from his house. We hung out in my carpeted kitchen in roller-footed chairs, drinking Cokes. As the evening fell and his time to leave approached, the unspoken expectation rose.
I Didn't Just Wake Up This Morning With A Craving 