Some very, very bad grammar.
One very cold night at the very beginning of 1980, I got very, very drunk and put my mouth all over my friend Melissa. The details are hazy. Underage, we drank many, many sloe gin fizzes, left the bar very late, and very likely stiffed the waitress. Melissa drove us home, unwisely, and we pulled over to make out on the side of the road, the engine of her father’s giant ’70s car thrumming like the heart of a Great White. When we slipped into bed, the sheets white and cold as ice cream, I kissed her breasts, her belly; inexpertly, drunkenly I mouthed her clitoris.
The next day, and for decades after, Melissa pretended it never happened. It was fine, her pretense. I was used to it with the boys I blew under the dusky cover of midnight keggers. Saturday night, they moaned my name; Monday morning, they willed me into namelessness.
The following summer, I learned how to fuck a woman.