My first time,
I still remember my first.

Walking down a lime-green Baptist church hall after school.
My mother working in an office upstairs.
I’m impatient, thinking I’m too old for rules.
Me in sixth grade was too much for day care.
I snuck down the sweating hallway and heard someone’s shoes.
I jumped in the crafts closet and held my breath.
As the sound faded, the lights were turned by a Harley tattoo.
His knowing look scared me to death.

My first time,
I still remember my first.

June of 1981, almost time for summer break.
Here I was with a school dropout, hidden in a church.
Maybe this dusty, crayola room held my first date-
On reflection, the others weren’t so different than the first.
What are you doing? he asked.
I paused in my complete embarrassment, so he asked again.
Brazenly, I’m out here without a pass.
He was unimpressed, Little director’s daughter, since when?

My first time,
I still remember my first.

The dirty light fell when we heard someone else on the corridor,
So we sat and talked awkward together on the dusty tiles.
He asked, How come you always think you deserve more?
Later I countered, How come you’re always angry or wild?
The air in there was crowded with smells, sounds, and us.
I could hear him breathing quick easy sips,
My lungs were nervous and my breath was hushed.
His hand touched my chin, then came his lips.

My first time,
I still remember my first.

That earthy kiss still registers in my mouth,
Like gas station dust blown in my eyes with a storm.
His tongue brought spit and grime and doubt,
But his effervescent juice slid down warm.
His hand groped me, waiting for resistance.
I was startled, pushing his truck-stop self away.
With my self-righteous exit, light hit his grin, defensive,
And my barely pubic voice said, “I’m not like this, Ray.”

My first time,
I still remember my first.