Before I ever had my first kiss, I went to second base.
Well, kind of. The tamest possible version of second base. I was 12 years old; pre–bat mitzvah but post–crossing the threshold of menstruation and leg shaving, and I was in a basement in New Jersey, watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show. A shaggy-haired boy from Hebrew school sat next to me, and halfway through the movie, under a blanket, he began to slowly feel me up over my black sports bra from Macy’s.