I met Stacey at a dance party in Pennysue Gold’s basement. I was fourteen. We danced a slow dance and she put her leg between mine, rubbing my crouch in rhythm to the music.
At first I had no idea what she was doing. None of the girls I knew would ever do such a thing. It never would have occurred to them, nor would it have occurred to me to want them to do it; it was an act beyond our mutual conception. All that changed with Stacey.
Unfortunately I can’t remember how the dance ended or what we said at that moment, assuming I managed to speak. Instead my next memory is of breathlessly telling my best friend David what had happened. He wasted no time asking Stacey to dance, and she did the same thing to him. Evidently it was how she danced.
Later, on the couch, Stacey revealed that she lived in the suburbs somewhere, an impossibly far distance away. She was Pennysue Gold’s cousin and had been driven to the party by her mother. I knew I would never see her again, and I never did.
In memory she has become my ex-girlfriend, S. Whenever I try to picture the girl in my arms that night, I see S. Because of this persistent confusion, I’ve often wondered if my “type” was imprinted that night in Pennysue Gold’s basement, at the moment Stacey glided her leg between mine.