How did you lose your virginity?
There are lesbians in Utah. Even in Salt Lake City. They just. Um.
Take a little extra effort to locate.
I was seventeen years old. As far as I knew I had three years to go before I turned into a ... something else. I had never told anyone from school. The closest I ever came was stuttering to my friend Eddie about having three years left; I think he thought I had leukemia or something. When he asked me if there was anything I really wanted to do first, well.
That, after a few hours and a few beers stolen from the fridge in his dad's garage, I opened up about.
Ever since ninth grade, I had been, well, you know. Woman-shaped. In places. At seventeen, I didn't really look seventeen. And, Eddie, he was the sort of guy you could picture sneaking into bars in junior high. He just sort of. Belonged.
So when we went down to the Paper Moon on South State Street, we didn't get hassled for I.D. at the door. Which was a good thing, because I'm pretty sure that would have blown whatever nerve I had mustered towards the whole endeavor.
He was the only guy around that night so we got a few looks at first. I mean. What other reason could there have been? I talked him into staying away from the bar, we shot some pool -- or, well, I watched him shoot -- and then there was. This. Girl.
I felt so stupid, just looking at her. Dry mouth, clammy hands, I was a mess.
Dark hair, olive skin, she was thin, all sharp-angled like someone in a magazine. Real girls didn't look like that. Not where I was from.
My first instinct was to look away. Or possibly, you know, run. Getting caught looking, I mean. It wasn't a safe thing in Salt Lake. There were only so many times it could be excused and I think I used up most of mine pretty quickly, learning that.
It took me a few minutes to remember where I was. To remember that it was okay there. To look.
So I did. And to my complete shock, she looked back. And there are very few people who know all the details of what happened later.
I'd sort of like to keep it that way, if that's all right with all of you.
Take a little extra effort to locate.
I was seventeen years old. As far as I knew I had three years to go before I turned into a ... something else. I had never told anyone from school. The closest I ever came was stuttering to my friend Eddie about having three years left; I think he thought I had leukemia or something. When he asked me if there was anything I really wanted to do first, well.
That, after a few hours and a few beers stolen from the fridge in his dad's garage, I opened up about.
Ever since ninth grade, I had been, well, you know. Woman-shaped. In places. At seventeen, I didn't really look seventeen. And, Eddie, he was the sort of guy you could picture sneaking into bars in junior high. He just sort of. Belonged.
So when we went down to the Paper Moon on South State Street, we didn't get hassled for I.D. at the door. Which was a good thing, because I'm pretty sure that would have blown whatever nerve I had mustered towards the whole endeavor.
He was the only guy around that night so we got a few looks at first. I mean. What other reason could there have been? I talked him into staying away from the bar, we shot some pool -- or, well, I watched him shoot -- and then there was. This. Girl.
I felt so stupid, just looking at her. Dry mouth, clammy hands, I was a mess.
Dark hair, olive skin, she was thin, all sharp-angled like someone in a magazine. Real girls didn't look like that. Not where I was from.
My first instinct was to look away. Or possibly, you know, run. Getting caught looking, I mean. It wasn't a safe thing in Salt Lake. There were only so many times it could be excused and I think I used up most of mine pretty quickly, learning that.
It took me a few minutes to remember where I was. To remember that it was okay there. To look.
So I did. And to my complete shock, she looked back. And there are very few people who know all the details of what happened later.
I'd sort of like to keep it that way, if that's all right with all of you.