Grade six. I had a girlfriend. But it was following the same tragic pattern: an initial flirtation followed by a brokering of the relationship between her friend and I, after which I’d become paralyzed with shyness, unable to even say “hello” to my new girlfriend. She’d eventually get bored and that same friend would then return to deliver the bad news.
And my current relationship had hit the boredom phase, judging by my girlfriend’s decision to switch desks to the opposite side of the room from where mine was.
So when the teacher rolled in the TV set, announcing we’d spend the rest of the day watching a tape of a musical — the kids gathering on the carpet in front of the TV — I took a spot right in front of my girlfriend, hoping proximity would help my cause.
Soon, however, my afternoon sugar crash kicked in. I felt my eyes getting heavy in the dim classroom.
But I snapped awake when I felt my girlfriend tickling the space above my hip. I froze in shock, which seemed to be a challenge to her, as she then slipped her hand underneath my shirt, touching my bare skin.
I was so still. Something told me I needed to be. That if I were to flinch or react, in any way, it would risk cutting short her exploration of me.
Which she was boldly in the midst of doing, rolling from knuckles to fingertips, circling my hip to the small of my back, grazing under the elastic of my boxers before tickly-scratching up and down my spine.
My response? Muscles tensing, palms sweating, squeezing my eyes shut, optical spots dancing on the darkness of my inner eyelids like lily pads on a pond, TV light through my eyelashes like moonlight through trees.
When the bell rang and the lights flicked on, I discovered that it was a boy behind me who’d been doing all that funny business on my back — my girlfriend had switched seats like she’d switched desks. Her friend would soon circle back with the bad news, but none of this mattered. The wick had been lit.
