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Firsts and Lasts

It was just the two of us in the booth. He motioned to put the money in the slot. I was nervous with anticipation. He smiled boyishly at me with his wallet in his hand. I smiled back and nodded okay.
The wooden covering rose slowly revealing a full bush of pubic hair right square in the middle of our window. I covered my mouth in shock.
“Omigod. Omigod. OMIGOD!” I squealed.
She was tall with long lean mahogany limbs. Atop her head was a perfectly round afro to match her pubic hair. Her breasts were round and bare.
She was the first stripper I had ever seen in my life.
I pressed my face as closely as I could against the glass to look around her to see the other models. They were beautiful models to me. Not strippers. I was breathless.
The wooden covering came down. The girls were gone.
I hugged him. My arms around his neck. I felt giddy and light.
“Can we do it again?”
He laughed at me. Gave me a good squeeze. “Sure.”
Before he put in more money, he stopped to look at me. My eyes surely big with wonderment. My face flushed with electric zeal. He smiled at me again. His devilish grin. His eyes on me like that I felt a trill of delight run through me.
The covering went up again. I jumped up and down. Hands clapping in glee.
There they were again. The women. So beautiful. Bare and naked.
I nestled close to him. “Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” he said back.
We watched them until the covering came down.
That was my first time.
Later, back in Berkeley, we hadn’t come out and told our friends we were seeing each other. So, we discreetly slipped out.
He walked me to my car. It started to rain. He took my face and kissed me. It began to storm, but he held me closer. His tongue sweet in my mouth. The rain swarmed down on us. He kept kissing me. I had never been kissed in the rain before.
It was my first time.
A few years after the rain kiss, I was in Florida studying for a nursing exam. I found out Nyima was killed on his birthday. A mugger shot him on College Avenue where we used to all hang out. He was 26.
I sat on the stairs of my hot apartment. My pathophysiology notes in my hand. I thought about that night. The beautiful women. The rain. The kiss.
No one has kissed me in the rain since then.
That was my first and last time.

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imee12 About imee12

Imee Cuison is a freelance writer, critical care nurse, script reader, and occasional professional (not glorified) furniture mover whose viewpoints encompass post-colonial musings, deconstruction of the commonplace, and making nonsense out of mole hills. She currently resides in Charleston, SC, otherwise known as the Holy City. Her work has appeared in Maganda Magazine, Psychic Meatloaf, and phati'tude Literary Magazine.

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