13 Years Old
I once had the cutest boyfriend. His name was Chris. Everyone called him Babyface.
He had long blonde hair, halfway down his back and blue eyes. He wore jean jackets. And glasses when he had to read something.
He wore pink because he could, not because he was questioning his sexuality. He knew already, it brought it out.
I remember leaning up against him, between his legs; in my older brother's room passing bottles of Southern Comfort and lemon gin. And bubblegum
Chris liked Metallica like me. Chris taught me about The Doors.
On a Friday afternoon, at 11:35 a.m., I would look out the door of my typing class and there would be Chris and Bill. We would hang out at the mall and I would not go back to class.
I met Chris on a dare.(Do you remember, Juner?)
We were making prank phone calls. Some rude. Some dirty. All funny. Someone knew Chris and the telephone was put in my hand.
"Call him," I was urged. "Do Sexy Sylvia."
So, of course I did.
"Hello," I said. "Is Chris there?"
"Speaking."
Hmmm. He sounded cute, even!
So, I decided my voice needed to be breathy, too. I am sure at 14, I might have maybe sounded like a coked-out porn star.
"This is Sexy Sylvia in lace underwear. I have three articles of clothing on. Pick a number between one and three and maybe I'll take something off for ya."
We ended up talking for a few hours.
I remember breaking-up with Chris on the steps of a church at one in the morning. The ground was wet with recent rain, filling our noses, the damp wind touching our faces.
I remember watching him storm away down the middle of the road.
"Now," Bill said to me, shaking his head. "What did you go and do that for?"
I remember standing there thinking the same thing.
I once had the cutest boyfriend. His name was Chris. Everyone called him Babyface.
He had long blonde hair, halfway down his back and blue eyes. He wore jean jackets. And glasses when he had to read something.
He wore pink because he could, not because he was questioning his sexuality. He knew already, it brought it out.
I remember leaning up against him, between his legs; in my older brother's room passing bottles of Southern Comfort and lemon gin. And bubblegum
Chris liked Metallica like me. Chris taught me about The Doors.
On a Friday afternoon, at 11:35 a.m., I would look out the door of my typing class and there would be Chris and Bill. We would hang out at the mall and I would not go back to class.
I met Chris on a dare.(Do you remember, Juner?)
We were making prank phone calls. Some rude. Some dirty. All funny. Someone knew Chris and the telephone was put in my hand.
"Call him," I was urged. "Do Sexy Sylvia."
So, of course I did.
"Hello," I said. "Is Chris there?"
"Speaking."
Hmmm. He sounded cute, even!
So, I decided my voice needed to be breathy, too. I am sure at 14, I might have maybe sounded like a coked-out porn star.
"This is Sexy Sylvia in lace underwear. I have three articles of clothing on. Pick a number between one and three and maybe I'll take something off for ya."
We ended up talking for a few hours.
I remember breaking-up with Chris on the steps of a church at one in the morning. The ground was wet with recent rain, filling our noses, the damp wind touching our faces.
I remember watching him storm away down the middle of the road.
"Now," Bill said to me, shaking his head. "What did you go and do that for?"
I remember standing there thinking the same thing.
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