Big Chicas Don't Cry(48)

I was almost seventeen and the boy was nineteen. He first asked my sister, but she told him no because she had set her sights on someone else. He didn’t technically ask me with words, just simply held out his hand and motioned to the dance floor with the other. I think it was known that we were from California and that our Spanish was limited. I looked around, hoping that someone would intervene, but instead I just saw my mom staring at me with a dopey-looking smile. Figuring it was better than sitting there with my younger cousins, I took the boy’s hand and let him lead me to the floor.

We danced to a couple of fast songs and then to a slow one. After that one was over, he led me away from the crowd and into a darkened breezeway that connected the church to the hall where the reception was being held. In broken Spanish and English, he told me I danced well and then asked if he could kiss me. I said, “Sí,” and instantly his mouth was on mine and his hands were on my breasts.

As he tried to shove his tongue between my teeth, all I could think was that I was finally having my first kiss. I closed my eyes and tried to enjoy the moment so I could remember it later. I kissed him back and tried to match his fervor, even though I had no idea what I was doing. I let him squeeze and pinch wherever he wanted, but when his hand started to creep up my skirt, I’d finally had enough.

I told him no and pulled his hand out. At first he laughed and started kissing me again. This time I moved my head and weakly pushed him away. I could see the change of expression as his eyes flashed with anger. He told me something in Spanish and then left me there alone in the breezeway. It was Selena who found me. She fixed my crooked skirt and rebuttoned my blouse. Then she took me to the restroom so I could redo my hair and makeup. The rest of the night she stayed by my side, turning down every boy who came to ask her to dance.

She never asked me what happened, but I’m sure she had an idea. My shame was obvious, and it took me another three years before I’d let any guy come close to kissing me. Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t like I was turning them away by the dozens. But I definitely sent out the signal not to even look at me sideways.

My only other “date” was with this guy named Will from my college algebra class. We had sat next to each other for an entire semester and barely exchanged looks. Then, during the summer, I ran into him at the bookstore. We were both looking at movies and somehow ended up back at his apartment watching The Da Vinci Code. His roommate was out of town for the weekend, so we were alone and drinking an off-brand beer. Halfway through the movie, Will held my hand. I smiled at him, and then he leaned in to kiss me. It was a nice kiss—not hard and desperate like my dance partner’s back in Mexico.

So I didn’t balk when he suggested we go into the bedroom and make out. I let him take off my jeans, but not my shirt. He took off his shirt and his jeans, but left on his boxers. We kissed more, and then Will asked me to touch the bulge between his legs. I agreed, and before I knew it, he was moving my hand up and down until he came inside his boxers.

He told me he would call me, but he didn’t. Finally, one day after class, he pulled me into a corner and told me how sorry he was, but he couldn’t date me after all. He said what we had done in his apartment that day was a sin and if we dated then we’d probably sin again, and he was trying to be a good Christian.

I had never been so mortified. That Sunday I went to all three Masses and confession. I thought I’d never escape the feeling of dirtiness.

It took several years after that encounter to even allow myself to think about having sex with someone. I was curious, of course. But not curious enough to do anything to pursue it. I figured when I found the right person, it would happen naturally.

Dancing in Tony’s arms felt that way. His hand pressed against my back, the way he breathed into my hair—all of it felt right.

“You’re a good dancer,” I told him.

“Thanks. So are you.”

I laughed. “You’re a bad liar.”

“I’m not lying. See?”

He spun me around expertly, and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud in delight. But when he pulled me back toward him, I noticed the space between us was smaller. His chest was hard against mine. Desire burned through me, and I ached to touch him all over.

I looked up into his eyes, and for a second I thought he was going to kiss me.

“Do you want to get another drink?” he said just as the song ended.

“I’m fine,” I said back.

But I really wasn’t.

By the time he parked his truck in front of my parents’ house later that night, the butterflies in my stomach were out of control. I silently wondered if I’d even be able to walk to my front door, based on how mushy everything felt inside me.

“I had a nice time,” Tony said before I could open my door.

I looked at him and smiled. “Me too.”

“Before you go, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” I answered, willing my voice not to sound so shaky.

Tony turned in his seat. “How come you never talked to me when we were in school?”

If I could’ve guessed all the questions he would ask me, that wouldn’t have even been in the top one hundred.

“I talked to you.”

He shrugged. “Maybe a word here and there. But, honestly, it kind of seemed like you were avoiding me.”

“You noticed that?” I blurted out before I thought better of it.