Sixteen. Her breasts were just beginning to form. Her hips barely
flared - a transition to womanhood. She exuded that certain
fragrance of youth and innocence that I would savor when the wind
blew my way.
I was sixteen. I suffered my first pimple two months before. My
hormones were on autopilot and I was at that stage prone to
indulging in fantasies but still lacking the courage to bring
about their implementation.
She was my steady, which meant she would be my first and last
dance during our jam sessions, that we could go to excursions
together. That was what we called our high school romps to the
beach then. We could even go to Norma Theater to catch a movie
with a bunch of classmates. During those times when we had
adjacent seats, I would shift positions so my arm would brush
against hers and when it did, shivers would run down my spine.
But in my hometown in 1956, holding hands with a girl in public
was a careless statement of suicidal valor.
I had planned it for weeks and that night would be the perfect
night. The sun had just set, a summer twilight in Butuan. I
walked her home from her Girl Scouts' meeting as I had done
several times before. When we got to her home near the old
Post Office, we sat at the bottom of the stairway where the
shafts of light filtering through the gaps in the wooden floor
of their "sala" were the only source of illumination. I pretended
to be oblivious to the summer heat and to the infernal mosquitoes.
Even in the semi darkness I could tell that she sensed that something
was about to happen. Because I had planned it so long, the anticipation
of finally going for it was absolutely unique and the adrenaline rush
was like no other. Not ever. I was beginning to experience a detachment
of many body parts. I did not know where my right elbow was. Rivulets
of perspiration were cascading down my back and on my forehead, mixed
with the Tarzan pomade which I had applied on my hair in generous
amounts earlier that day.
I could hear her father and mother having a conversation in their
kitchen. Her father! Just the sight of his shadow would cause my
heart to lose it's rhythm. And if he knew of my ambitious intentions
there would have been no doubt at all that my breathing privileges
would have been revoked before sunrise.
Panic. Oh God, this was not the time to faint. Neither was it the
appropriate time to lose one's faculty for urinary inhibition. Gas
emissions, even of the silent variety, would have been an everlasting
embarrassment. Between hyperventilation and hysteria, I managed to
blurt it out - "I want a kiss". A statement, not a demand. Casually,
although I swear, I could hear my right knee uncontrollably knocking
against the stairway spindle. I could not feel my knee which by then,
like my hands and arms, had gone numb.
Silence.
I could hear my perspiration hitting the wooden floor. I closed my
eyes in agony. By tomorrow, all my friends
would know. Can death be worse than this?
And then it came.
Wet, not sloppy.
Rather, moist like a dewdrop.
Slow like a sigh.
Soft as a whisper.
On my left cheek.
Just below the pimple.
She was gone in a flash.
When the paralysis subsided, I floated home that memorable Butuan
summer twilight in beatific levitation. It was just getting dark
but a thousand stars came out early for me.
And I spoke to each one of them.
