Sapphic Voices General Fiction

My First

My first?

Let me tell you about my first.

She had raven hair that could reflect moonlight that I never got to run my fingers through; sky blue eyes I never got up close enough to tumble into. We never kissed, never touched, didn’t even have sex. Yet on the night in question she left invisible fingerprints all over my body.

This is what happened.

That last year in high school I’d been selected stage manager for the drama club, which meant it was my job to make sure the curtains went up on cue, all the spots hit their marks and my crew was never louder than the performers. She was part of the third act of that year’s annual talent show, lead singer in a four-piece band that called themselves, without irony, Holly and The Woodies. One look and we had them pegged. Drumheads virgin white, guitars outfitted with brand-new strings, a mike that had come straight out of the box. You just knew somebody’s mommy had fished out the plastic and it was little wonder whose.

But then, Holly Dunscomb had led a charmed life back in the day. She was three of the five most popular people in the senior class. Her resume would have red: head cheerleader, captain of the varsity volleyball team, president of the Spanish, Math and Science Clubs, Student-of-The-Month for nearly all of junior year. You just knew she was destined to drive in the car her daddy had bought her for her Sweet Sixteen to go pledge at the same sorority her mom did, where she’d no doubt meet her fiancé. Holly didn’t drink, wouldn’t smoke, went religiously to church every Sunday and always just said no to drugs. Of course, how any of that qualified her to sing rock-and-roll was beyond me but then high school was often a Twilight Zone episode, without the cool into music.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to the St. Michael’s Academy for Gifted Student’s Annual Talent Show, 1985!”

We in the crew were dressed in traditional black, invisible to the world. On the other hand The Woodies wore freshly-ironed blue jeans, crisp white button down shirts, and thin red leather ties wrapped around their heads. As for Holly, she was adorned in a tight sweater, poodle skirt and ruby red slippers her mom had probably stolen right off of Dorothy’s corpse.

The first act was a couple of football players getting their yuks by reciting Shakespeare in drag. I have since come to learn that bleeding hemorrhoids are less painful. As soon as they were done I gratefully lowered the curtain and signaled Mr. Carver, Geometry 101 Teacher and the night’s emcee. Sensing yet another cool moment had arrived, he and his bowtie ran out to announce the next act. Meanwhile I spied Holly off in the wings, lips moving in prayer. What, Little Miss Perfect nervous? Next you’ll have me believing she farts and burps, too. Please!

The next act was a pair of juggling A.V. geeks. Originally the two had wanted to toss lit torches and sharpened swords but as there were fire codes and potential lawsuits to think of so we had them go with something less harmful. Good thing, too, since they made a dozen drops, each time eliciting that polite parental applause that mean, “good for trying.” God, if there’s a more well-meaning death-knell, I don’t know it.

Finally, gratefully, they took their bows, bowling pins and rubber chickens falling out from under their arms. Mr. Carver clapped all the way to center stage. “Thank you, Billy and Tim. Your parents must be very proud. And now, without any further ado let me introduce to you, fresh from their European tour and sold-out shows at Madison Square Garden, ha ha ha, our very own Holly and The Woodies!”

His words were followed by six stomping bass drum beats and then a tight two-beat roll on the snare. That’s when the guitars kicked in, laying down a fuzzy Beach Boy flavored chord. Right on cue Holly ran out, bouncing up and down on an invisible Pogo stick as she channeled Deborah Harry.

I raised an eyebrow, checked my clipboard. Blondie? “Dreaming”? Weren’t they supposed to be doing Air Supply?

My crew certainly thought so, their voices colliding in my headset. This wasn’t what they rehearsed! She wasn’t staying on any of her marks! I looked around to see quite a few fingers stuck into ears.

But if she was breaking notes I hadn’t noticed. I was transfixed, standing there on the edge of the light, not just by the sight of Holly bouncing about but by this strange new feeling bouncing inside of me. I don’t know what to call it – I had ignored it for so long I had forgotten its name. Now it wriggled free from its iron cocoon and spread its fine pink wings, taking flight after Holly, following her where the spotlight couldn’t. It left me feeling flushed and light-headed, as if I could fly.

I tore my gaze away before anyone could catch me staring at another girl - and then looked back. And there Holly was, throwing it out to the audience like a drunk Mardi Gras float queen tossing beads. Then with a final “dreaming is free” she leapt into the spots and brought it home.

Silence.

Then the silence was broken by clapping, from the first row, then the second, the third, a wave of applause rolling over aisle after aisle until the entire auditorium was on its feet, teachers and students, family and friends, everyone putting their hands together to show her love. And to my crew’s amazement I do had joined in the ovation, although I suspect for entirely different reasons.

* * *

In case you were wondering, Holly and The Woodies did not win the St. Michael’s Academy for Gifted Students’ Annual Talent Show, 1985. The blue ribbon instead went to Sherry Katterwall for her version of “I Could Have Danced All Night.” True, her singing was flawless and posture perfect, not a bead of sweat staining her porcelain face. And let’s face it, in the cut throat world of high school talent shows, Broadway trumps Blondie every time.

As camera toting parents rushed the stage I look around for Holly to see how she was taking it, but by then her manager – oops, her mom – had stolen her away. I thought maybe she’d be at the post-show party but no, no one had invited her, leaving me to gobble up pizza, drink contraband beer and make out with all the usual suspects. That night I went home, alone – save for the strange fires she had lit inside my belly to keep me warm all night long.

Now rumor has it that Miss Holly Dunscomb did indeed take that little sporty number and driven it to Harvard where she did indeed meet her future husband saw the rest of her life reflected in his eyes. I hear she married the guy anyway and had no less than seven kids with him. As for me, I manage a record store by day, an all-grrl rock band on the weekend and still light up whenever I hear Blondie come on the radio. Because in the end, no matter how many frequent flyer miles we rack up between lovers’ beds, we never ever forget our first.

If you have enjoyed Stephanie Alexis Bonvissuto's "My First", then please be certain to e-mail her at  stephaniealexis8[at]hotmail.com  and thank her for posting this Story.

Click here for a list of all of Stephanie Alexis Bonvissuto's  Stories and Poetry at  Sapphic Voices Authoresses.