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The Boys and the Bees
Christopher Thomas
I hadn’t quite reached puberty
when my father told me about
the birds and the bees, but by
that time the boy next door had
already practiced his French
kissing on me and paid me in
nickels to rub him off with Crisco
in my hand. I would have done
it for free but never told him that.
By the time I was in the seventh
grade, the boy next door and I had
been lovers for two years. He was
too old for me to do sleepovers
with so we always met in the barn.
I was twelve or thirteen when Dad
gave me the talk. He said girls
could get pregnant even if boys
just kissed them and advised that
I learn to keep it in my pants. I
told him it didn’t sound like much
fun anyway and later that day when
the neighbor boy was blowing in my
ear, I asked him if he ever wanted
to French kiss any of the girls on our
block. He said that as long as he had
me his teaching days were over, then
French kissed me someplace new.
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