It was my senior year of high school but Sarah and I had been friends since 6th grade when the Girl Scout troops from our two different elementary schools were combined once we reached middle school. We’d both dropped out of Girl Scouts long before the cold night where she left me trembling at her touch.
Having been friends for so long, I didn’t think much of it when Sarah called me up and told me that her parents couldn’t use their play tickets that weekend and asked if I wanted to go see the show with her. She was a theater geek and for years I had gone to her productions, carrying bundles of carnations for her and our other friends in the play.
She had a car and I didn’t so she picked me up that night. Somewhere around the time that we were finding our seats in the theater, it occurred to me that I was on a date. Sarah and I had hung out plenty of times so it took me awhile to figure out what made this different. As I was sliding into the row of seats, she had put her hand on the small of my back. Gently and quickly. It was an imperceptible gesture, but in that moment it meant something. I spent a lot of the play thinking about what this was and how I felt about it. I also carefully convinced myself that I was being silly and that it meant nothing.
At this point I hadn’t received romantic attention from much of anyone. At least not that I noticed. I had always been very focused on obsessive crushes with gay men or the emotionally unavailable. If anyone else wanted to date me in high school, I was oblivious.
And here was Sarah. We had been in the Gay-Straight Alliance together (some of the founding members). I knew that she was bisexual and had an on and off very messy relationship with another actress (that had moved away for college the year before). She had perked up with interest when I told her that I thought I was bisexual as well but I wasn’t sure. She and I sat together in Statistics and had a conversation one day about the Kinsey scale. I don’t remember where I placed myself during that conversation but it must have garnered her attention.
After the play and coffee and clove cigarettes (we were such cliches!) we started to head back to my family’s apartment. But half way there she declared that she wasn’t tired and asked if I wanted to drive around a little longer and talk. Despite how obvious this situation was, I was still just along for the ride. So unconfident in my body and sexuality that I didn’t think this was anything other than a night between friends. We drove and we talked.
Then she brought up that Kinsey scale. She told me about her experiences with the actress - the emotional roller coaster. Then it was my turn. What were my experiences? None. Some kisses during spin-the-bottle and a bit of hand-holding and cuddling with the various boys who would always be my best friends but didn’t want to ruin our friendship with something romantic. I told her this and she seemed surprised. Perhaps then, like today, I seemed more sexually confident than I really was.
Then she asked me. If I hadn’t really been properly kissed did I want to do it with her? My mind raced and, planner that I was, my first gut instinct was that she couldn’t possibly mean right now. I blurted out the dumbest possible question: “When?”
She just looked at me and pulled over the car.
So there we were. December in Milwaukee and the car is idling and I am shaking like a leaf. She said lots of things in the intervening moments. About how I didn’t have to and she wasn’t trying to pressure me. I think she needed me to express desire but all I could muster was terror.
Then she took my hand. She started slowly caressing my palm with her fingertips and nails. Rubbing my flesh in hers like a piece of clay. I was silent except for my tiny gasps for breath. I tried to focus all of the terror into my hand and let Sarah take it away, mash it in her soft fingers until it was nothing.
She lifted my arm and placed her soft, full lips against my palm. I sighed and felt a familiar excitement surge within me. She kept kissing my hand and caressing my wrist and arm. Teasing me with the promise of what her touch could be. I was on fire and I was still terrified.
We were silent through this process. 10 minutes? 15? I don’t really know. Finally she spoke again and asked me to turn towards her. I had been resolutely staring out the windshield or clamping my eyes shut. Anything not to cope with the enormity of this moment and my shame and desperate anxiety.
I turned to her and whimpered a bit. She asked if I was okay. She asked if she could kiss me.
I probably looked like I was either about to burst into tears or into flames. I don’t think it mattered to Sarah at that moment. My slight nod and forced smile was all she needed. She leaned toward me and my heart raced again.
And then, it just was. She was kissing me, I was kissing back. It fell into place with little deliberate or considered action on my part. Her hands in my hair and on my shoulders. My hand resting on the thigh of her jeans. Tasting her and the coffee and cloves and lipgloss that defined who she was and what she materially meant to me in that moment. Again, I don’t know how long it went on. 10 minutes? 15? There was no progression. No clothes removed. Just kissing. It was enough, it was my education in desire and pleasure at someone else’s hands. And it came as a crash course. It was what I wanted and needed but I didn’t know that yet.
The drive home was less awkward than you would think. I had been opened now and talked a lot. Sarah and I went 2 years without speaking of that night again. To her it was probably not significant. To me it was much too significant. And now, when I think of who I am and how I feel about first kisses, I’m always still that barely 18-year-old girl trembling, terrified, and unsure.
