"The French girls invented it," she told me. "It's called a..."

Impossible, I thought. This phenomenon has been around forever, how come...

My silly, perverted friend drowned out my thoughts before I could finish them.

"-bj for short."

I giggled at this thought. My friend only acted like she knew everything, but really, we all knew she'd come to me for help on our algebra homework at the end of the day.

I only nodded, allowing her to buy into my contentness with her psuedo matter-of-factness. She closed her browser, the window fading diagonally into her computer history; and I shuddered at the thought of her old school, deep-in-fundamental-roots mother coming across it one day. I always thought her to be a lazy one, even for a bearer of four spunky girls I found friends in, but she was even more nosy. Why are you so interested in what I'm looking at, ma? I am, after all, only a thirteen year old girl. They say curiosity is only natural for humans, but hell, leave some things to the imagination.

It's about time you take some of your own advice, Tater.

And I wished I had, at that moment. I could only shudder at the thought. It was like English class all over, with the three main questions when dissecting sentences: Who, what, why?

Older people, that's who. Naughty girls with 'daddy issues', some people would tell me- mostly referring to the younger pioneers of such activity.

For additional kink, I suppose?

So what about it, though?

How do you keep from laughing when he...

What on God's green earth does it taste like?

The idea of putting that, there just sounded crazy. It was like dipping Oreos in ketchup, or hot dogs with corn in place of relish. Not the best analogies, but the thought was enough to make me want to vomit.

As a yound child I was told that the time would come when I would understand these things better, like jokes only grown ups seemed to find funny. I could only shrug it off until one day when the government decided I was enough to smoke cigarettes and pay taxes would these mature concepts magically click with me, and then I'd get it.

Though, it came before that. When it did click, I was neither paying taxes; nor smoking, at that particular age, was still technically illegal even though that didn't stop me from watching Him load one with experienced fingers, and fascinated would I take as much of a hit that my asthmatic lungs would allow...

...then exhale.

We both came down, the effects of our elevation wearing off. We were laying down; and being His new girlfriend, there was a few things I recall I just couldn't keep to my imagination.

It's like, after finally kissing Him, I ached to do so much more.

And the feeling was mutual.

My feeble fingers tugged at his pants, before he allowed his access. Too drunk to even consider laughing or expression any puerile comments, I took it in both hands. Took it in both hands, like my chubby toddler hands around my sippy cup.

Or around my Louisville Slugger. Or nervous hands around the steering wheel in the rain.

First time discomfort.

Thrill; also another word for discomfort in this context.

First time thrill.

Do you remember the first time going on one of those big girl roller coasters at the amusement park, the one that once you got to the top of it you could (supposedly) 'see the whole park', the one with a bunch of loops? And you got off, a big smile on your freckled and sunburned face from accomplishment remembering that only a few years earlier you swore you would never...

Mom, I want to go again!

Now, think of that thrill ride as another human. A man, a lover. And you want to try him-all your friends have at some point- so, almost reluctantly, but not so much at the same time, you give in, and that is that.

Baby, do you have another rubber? I wanna go another round.

Adrenaline. Your body's motivation to do anything stupid that it probably shouldn't. The logical part of you will tell you a firm 'no', and you don't listen.

That is what it felt like to be holding him in my hands; puppy dog eyes looking up at his face for a subtle nod of approval, and then after placing my Marlboro in a tray to the side, I take it in my pretty little mouth.

Menthol.

It wasn't so bad.

So this is what the French girls came up with? I wonder if Americans can do it any better.

He answered that question for me before the night was up.