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IN THE SUMER OF 1979,
I was Mark Merlini's girlfriend for four hours. He
lived down the street and suddenly seemed cute, so we kissed for about a
half-hour on the hill behind his house, facing the Route 11 bypass in
Gilford, New Hampshire. He kissed with his mouth open so of course I
opened mine, but our mouths created a strange suction which I found
unpleasant and a little stupid. When I broke up with Mark — after I'd
walked home, had time to think about things and called him on the phone —
he thought he'd frightened me with his sexual prowess. "We don't have to
make out," he said. " I guess we moved a little fast."
"It's not that," I said. "I just don't like you," and after he protested a
few more times, I hung up. My reason for breaking up with Mark was no more
truthful than his vows to keep us together, but it was the best I could do
when I was eleven.
Boys like Mark were a dime a dozen. I was either friends with guys in
grade school or rivals, with a reputation for being as tough, as quick,
and as mean. I gained their respect by outlasting them at dodgeball,
standing alone in the circle while they pitched the kickball and missed
me, one by one.
I thought I knew as much about sex as I did dodgeball, it was just that I
hadn't put my expertise into practice yet. I read a lot and was a
know-it-all about plenty of things I'd never done, and though I can say
now knowledge without practice is pretty close to ignorance, I really
thought I had a handle on things at eleven.
Reprinted with permission
from brevity, Fall 1999
Copyright © 1999
by Kate Flaherty
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