"Have you ever really been touched by a man?"

"Of course."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Then why ..." he asked as he advanced on me, his voice low, deceptive, soft, "... then why are you running away from me?"

Pasadena. It's got no funk. No rhythm. No jive, man. Juke joints, hep cats, hot tin roofs ... those don't strut in Pasadena. Not like in Hollywood. The Beach. Ventura. You'd never find what you want in Pasadena when you're a woman looking for real class fun edged with enough danger to know if your old man saw you, you'd be going to a convent instead of college.

Another two months, I thought to myself that night. I remember thinking that. Just like that. Bored, looking for the right kind of action, wishing the two months away until I could get out of Pasadena and head across country to Radcliffe.

"I'm spending every weekend in New York city," I said. "I hear they got nightclubs that never close and where people like Sinatra and Bobby Darin come try out their new material because they want to see if it's cool enough."

"New York," Viviane said, tossing her curls back, just the mention of that city that never sleeps enough to make us dream. "You're so damned lucky, Maggie."

Lucky. Maybe. Mostly it wasn't luck, though. Except for being lucky to be born with enough brains to find school pretty easy. Still, I'd worked hard and come away from four years of high school with good enough grades to earn a scholarship. Without it? I'd be going to UCLA like Viv. But the thing is that after four years of doing the right thing, being the good daughter, perfect attendance, A's straight down the line ... well, the thing was, this summer was all about not being quite so perfect.

Last chance fling summer. That's what Viv and me said this would be. We'd sworn it to ourselves all our senior year. We were determined to lose our virginity and we didn't want to give it up cheap. No, sir. We weren't going to hand it over to some sweaty boy our own age, back seat of his daddy's car, local drive in. No way, cat.

When we were finally made women of the world, it would be by a man who would make us happy to have waited, being with him maybe only once but it'd count, it would. He'd be older, but not so old it'd be creepy. No. He'd be late twenties, maybe 30. He'd go slow. He'd never falter. He'd do it good so it'd be good. We'd know the right one because he'd look at us that certain way, like in the movies; eyes dark, piercing, so you'd know what he had in mind and it wasn't fumbling under your skirt at the drive in.

So far, it hadn't been quite as much a breeze as we'd thought it would be. Come right down to it and what are you going to do? Wear a sign saying, "come take my cherry" when you're in some cool jive joint, sipping a drink and waiting to be noticed as a girl wanting to be a woman? Accept a drink from some older man in a happening place like that, him done up in a suit, knowing he's thinking he's with a woman who isn't there to play games, so you'd smile, whisper in his ear, "You don't mind that I'm a virgin, do you?"

They do, you know. Mind, I mean. Well, at least the ones we'd met so far. They find out how old we really were, just 18 a few months, and it'd be one of the first things they'd assume about us. "You ever done it, baby?" they'd say, this panicky look on their face as their body was already making a move to get away.

And you'd be sitting there wondering when someone's going to finally let you in on the big secret. Is it really that mind blowing, life changing, shattering for a woman that men fear being the first? I'm not talking boys, because boys have no qualms about being the first. They don't mind the old first base-second base-homerun thing with the windows fogging up; you wondering if they even know what the hell they are supposed to be doing and then it's over. You wondering, 'is that it?' while you're laying there crying to have finally done it. I'd heard enough horror stories from other girls about that way of giving it up.

I wanted my first time to be with a man of experience, class, sophistication. I wanted him to seduce me, wine and dine me, carry me away and make me a woman. A real woman.

If he looked like Tab Hunter, so much the better.

"Maybe they think we're really not 18. That we're jail bait," Viv said as we waited out a red light on Ventura, heading for the Formosa.

"Not tonight they won't," I said, adjusting my boobs in a bra I'd never worn before that night. 

The Formosa, place of red flocked walls, black inlaid bar, black with gold flecks enameled tabletops. Men in there, I heard, they were the real thing. They had money, power, style. They liked their women smart, cool and sassy. Young, curvy and willing was the cherry on top.

I'd borrowed dresses from my older sister's closet for this night. We were staying at her apartment over near Venice Beach. Amy was away for the weekend, off with her boss hoping she might be Mrs. Boss before long. She was five years older than Viv and me; she had a killer wardrobe. She'd kill us both if she knew we were wearing these dresses and her shoes. Not to mention the bras.

We didn't look 18. Not that night. Trick was, Viv had said, to act like we looked. Act 22 or 23. Still young enough to be coy but old enough for a man to assume we were the kind of woman he could take home or to a hotel.

Two months to lose my virginity. Only I kind of didn't want to wait that whole two months. I figured once the preliminaries were out of the way, it'd all get a whole lot easier to spend the rest of that lazy summer having the kind of frolic I deserved before having to knuckle down to books and tests again come fall. I had high hopes for the Formosa.

Inside the Formosa, we stuck close to each other. Sat in a booth, crossed our legs, assured each other our lipstick wasn't smeared, waited on the barmaid to return with our Manhattans. Second drink was a whisky sour. Half way through it before two men asked to buy us another, sat down with us, asked us to dance. Mine whispered in my ear as we danced. He said I felt like heaven. He asked me, did I like the way he felt. I wasn't sure it was supposed to be going this fast. But maybe it does. He didn't feel good; he didn't feel bad. Actually, I think I didn't feel much at that point. A little numb.

Some nervous.

When should I tell him, I thought. Should I? Maybe I should just say nothing. Maybe he'd never know. Could they tell? I could just say I hadn't done it that way before, whatever way he did it. Maybe he'd not think I was simply and totally clueless.

But then some other guys came in. Knew the two me and Viv were with. Worked together, they said. Friday night, get off work, out chasing skirt with their buddies. These two were the first to score, not too many other unattached young women in there at that point so the buddies were watching us hard, waiting to see if they wanted to stick around, see if more babes made the scene soon. When we went back to the booth, the other three insisted we four join them at their table. They had all been drinking before they got there. They were buying us drinks. Flirting with us. Only me and Viv there with the five of them. When no more women came in and the songs they'd plugged into the jukebox started wailing, they started trading off, asking us to dance. But the original guys, they were keeping track of us, not letting us get too palsy with any of the other guys.

Still buying us drinks, never letting us finish the glass, confusing me how to keep track, then feeling like it didn't matter so much because I felt kind of floaty. And real bold with them, flirting, letting them whisper heated words in my ear when we'd dance.

Only one of the five never asked us to dance, never flirted around, never joked with us. He stared in his drink, spent time at the jukebox, played darts. Never met my eyes. Don't think he met Viv's either. The others gave him a hard time after a while. Said he'd not taken his turn dancing with either of us. Guy I was with said, ask him to dance, honey. I was high, alcohol, the closeness of real sex, men all around, feeling pretty invincible. I said, oh, come on, honey, dance with me, don't be such a killjoy.

It was the first time he looked me in the eyes. Even high, I saw him examining me, judging me, wincing. Don't you like girls, I said to him, voice all throaty, surprised that was me, I sounded older, sexed up, like I knew what I was doing. Everyone laughed. He took me by the wrist, walked me to the dance floor.

Big guy. Good dance partner. Held me up. Respectable space between us except I kept wiggling in against his big chest. I said, 'you smell so nice,' my nose in close to his neck.

He said, "How old are you?"

"23," I said, feeling the high about to crash.

"Try again, honey," he said, low, only us hearing this conversation. "Maybe you and your friend should go home to your mommies. You don't know what you're getting yourselves involved in."

"We're having fun. Don't be such a zero."

"We're cops."

"Yeah? So?"

"So they're not going to take kindly to you leading 'em on."

"Who says we're leading them on?"

"Honey, you and your little friend there? You've got underage written all over you. You're dressed up in someone else's clothes but that don't make you old enough."

"We are not underage."

"No?"

"No. We're both 18."

"Jesus."

"Not your business anyway."

"I'm making it my business, honey. C'mon. I'm getting you a cab."

Viv and me, we insisted on taking our own car. No cab. We were both pissed at this Dudley Do-Right cop, trying to force us to meet his definition of women old enough, experienced enough for his friends. If he'd not showed up, we'd probably have been heading for hotel rooms about then.

The guys we were with, they insisted on walking us to the car. They seemed just as pissed at their buddy cop, the killjoy cop. Outside in the night, they put their arms around us, my guy named Ken, Viv's guy named Roger, and walked us around the corner to the parking lot where we had the car.

Ken's mouth was on my ear about the whole way. Whispering things to me. When we rounded the corner, he held me back, his arms around my waist, moving me over to this alcove where a hidden doorway lurked in the shadows. I lost track of Viv and Roger. Heard her unlocking the door, calling my name once ... but by then, Ken was kissing me full on, pressing me back into the doorway's darkness. I think I giggled, maybe that was Viv.

"So, what do you say, Maggie?" Ken said, his hands on my breasts, my brain high, juiced on injustice, whisky, flesh, suggestions he'd made in my ear that scared me. "Let me in?"

"Let you in where?" I said, voice soft, his hands now under my skirt and moving up.

"Right here," he said, his mouth over my ear, his body pressing against mine, my hands down over his, trying to slow him down.

"Not here," I said. "I want it to be right. Good. You know?"

"I do know. It'll be so good."

Wet tongue in my ear. His hands in my crotch, rough, strong. Not how I thought this would be. For this I'd given up the back seat? This seemed worse. The door behind me hurt my back.

"No."

"Yes. You want it. You know you do."

"Not here."

"You playing me? You're not playing me, are you, Maggie? I'd not be happy if you were."

"No, no." His hands capturing mine. His groin grinding against mine. He was hard. I knew what that meant. I'd felt that before. In a backseat, when I said no and the guy let me go. This one wasn't.

One hand holding both of mine. His mouth still over my ear, tongue inside, then words telling me he was gonna fuck me good and hard. No, I said, not here, not like this. Thinking ... knowing ... I'd made a big mistake. Would it hurt? This wasn't what I wanted.

His other hand under the crotch of my panties. A finger up me. No, I said, now panicking. His mouth on mine; I tried to knock it off but he made it impossible. No, I mumbled into his mouth; doubt he heard. Another finger up me. I was crying now. No way out. Where was Viv? Was she okay? Did she know what was happening to me? Could she see?

The air was cold when he pulled and yanked my panties down a bit. At least his fingers weren't up me anymore. I was crying hard now. He told me to shut up.

But then he was pulling me off the door.

No. He was being pulled off me, but he still had hold of me so I was being pulled along.

"Let her go," the killjoy was telling him. "She's only 18, man. Let her go."

"She wants it, man, leave me alone."

"Let her go."

He let me go, doubt he had much choice; killjoy so much bigger, sounding like he meant it. I just stood there, halfway in the shadow, wavering between total darkness and the outside edges of a street lamp's glowing light falling over the side of the building. I tottered on my sister's pumps.

He cursed me. Ken did. Or maybe he was cursing Officer Killjoy. I don't know. 

But he stumbled away. He dragged Roger with him, calling out to him, "They're not gonna give it up, man. C'mon. Let's find women to party with. I need a blowjob."

I heard a car door slam. And still I tottered on my sister's heels. 

He didn't make a fuss over us, Officer Killjoy. He just said, you ladies aren't driving yourselves home tonight. He drove Viv's car; another friend of his, not Ken or Roger, followed us in another car, so he'd have a ride back. Instead of my sister's apartment, I gave him my parents' address; so numb it's the only address I could remember. But when we got there, Viv started crying and said between fearful gulps that our parents would kill us if we came in with me looking like that. She was right. In my sister's dresses, made up like they'd never seen us, both been drinking, smelling of smoke from the Formosa, cops dropping us off. By then I knew my sister's dress was ripped and that my crying had ruined my makeup. My mom would know something bad had happened. I wouldn't have been able to lie to her that night.

Make up your mind, Officer Killjoy said to me, looking straight out the windshield. I gave him my sister's apartment's address. It was back there in my mind. We got there; he said, this the place. We both said, oh yes. He said, don't ever do that again. Even when you are 23, he said.

He was walking us to the apartment, his hand on my elbow, me still tottering a bit on my sister's heels. At the door, he took my purse from me, fished out the keys. While I unlocked the door, he was getting my wallet out.

"Maggie Connelly," he said, looking at my driver's license. His eyes suddenly came right up to latch on to mine. "I'm gonna remember you, honey. Don't ever let me catch you out at a place like that without a proper escort. Nice girls get eaten alive at places like that. I don't want that to happen to you. Got it?"

Two days later, I saw him drive by my parents' home. Viv and I sitting out on the curb, trying to figure out what we were going to do now, worried that virginhood was going to be our permanent affliction. He didn't even smile at us.

Next time he drove by was a day later. It was just turning dark. Me and Viv washing my dad's car. Wearing cut-offs, our shirts tied in front, bare midriffs. All wet from having sprayed each other ... spent so much time playing that we'd neglected the car until Dad came out and said you girls better get that chore done or Viv's got to go home.

I was in high spirits, giddy from soap and pent up frustration over regret that maybe I should have let Ken do it. Maybe all this waiting for the right moment, right place, right type of man had been a mistake. At least I'd not have been a virgin.

So Officer Killjoy comes driving by again. Slows down. Watches us, his foot on the brake lighting up the red lights at the rear of his silver car. I blew him a kiss and wiggled my boobs at him. His eyes narrowed; even in the growing darkness, I could see him not liking that bit of sass.

"Someone's got a crush on you, Maggie," Viv says, we're watching the car disappear into the night, turning the corner.

"He's so not what I'd ever want," I say, feeling the idea of him being the one become solid in that one moment.

Saturday night, we drove to Kone Kingdom. Cars, lots of them, jamming the lot. Kids around. Only adults there were parents. The rest of us were buying soft serve ice cream cones and seeing if there's anyone of remote interest. This is what passed for hot action in Pasadena.

I told Viv, maybe we should try another place on Ventura. At least go down to Venice Beach. Not by the college, I said, they're not the right crowd for what we want.

So she was leaning against her car, I was sitting on the hood, my feet swaying to the beat of someone's car radio. We were trying to figure out what we did now; were we still wanting to lose the virginity in the way we'd dreamed? Maybe ... maybe not ... but not wanting to give up on each other yet.

Viv saw him first. Officer Killjoy, silver car, cruising, seeing Viv's red car, pulling in next to us. Me and him, just looking at each other through his passenger side window. Him finally getting out, me noticing the way he walked. Like wherever he walked, he meant to be there. Big guy. Bet he'd played football. Dragsville outfit; screamed 'establishment' but in some ways, it made him even more of a man.

Girls, he said.

Officer, we said.

Bud, he said.

We giggled at each other, me and Viv. I felt funny when he looked at me. Good funny. 

"You girls staying out of trouble?" Bud asked us.

"Unfortunately," I said.

"Why would you want to invite trouble into your nice, sweet little lives?" Bud said.

"Maybe we're tired of being sweet," I said.

He raised his eyebrows, pursed his lip, his hands going in his pockets. "Nice girls like you should know you won't meet nice boys in a place like that."

"Maybe that was the whole point," Viv said.

"Is that why you were there? Because you're not a nice man?" I said.

"Would you like to go to dinner with me some night?" he asked, looking right at me, taking me by surprise.

"Yes," I said, looking in his eyes, taking myself totally by surprise.

I found out later, almost first thing he told me at dinner on that next Friday, that he'd never meant to ask me out. He was 26 years old. He didn't ever mean to ask out a girl of 18.

"Then why did you?" I asked him.

"I hope to find out," he said softly, his eyes not on me.

When I studied him in this moment, that first fluttery wondering if he could be the man who'd be the right man to have sex with the first time, it turned into something else. It turned into desire that he be the one. I watched every movement of his hands, sure it signaled his expertise. I noted the lowered eyes, the way his lashes seemed long and thought, this man will be gentle. I observed his jaw, fine, firm, resolute atop a neck so masculine I finally knew the impact of that word. I wanted to understand why my reaction to seeing the play of his chest inside the neat white shirt he wore, deep brown tie, solid chocolate colored sports jacket, why it was I wanted to get rid of the shirt, tie and jacket. I knew why; this was simply the first time I knew from a mercenary standpoint.

We got along relatively well. Until the salad plates were whisked away and we sat waiting on the entrees. He was studying some stacked platinum blonde wiggle past and I said, I'm over here, Bud. He inclined his head at her as he turned to look at me. That, he said, is not the way he'd ever want me looking when I grew up.

The running argument all night bounced all around that statement's implications and exact words. I didn't like that he thought he could somehow dictate to me on what I should or should not look like; square like him, what'd he know anyway? I hated this implication that I wasn't yet grown up enough, that he thought he could tell me something like that proved he thought of me as a kid, me wanting him thinking of me as a woman. I hated that he'd ogled her, desired her, not me. If he'd desired me, it'd be me he'd have ogled. She'd have not even merited more than a casual glance, see who's walking past the table.

I don't know that I remember his side to that running argument. Mostly, I think, he bore the brunt of my jibes and simply glared at me when I said something particularly inflammatory. But then he said, ladies don't talk like that to me; me saying he should have been ogling me, not some slutty Jane Mansfield wannabe.

The drive home was in a car filled with frosty air. He walked me to the porch. We stood there, awkward, suddenly both realizing the shitty spat had robbed us of the evening and here we were, hours earlier than we should have been, calling it a night, not even a chance of a good night kiss now. No illusion of a second date and all because we'd blown it, both getting carried away ... nerves, I realized. Both of us. Both nervous. He was turning to go; I said his name, soft. He paused; I was going to apologize but then the door opened and my mom stepped out.

She complimented him on getting me home at such a polite hour. First dates should always be that way, she said, easy and not too long, just getting to know each other. She invited him to Sunday dinner. I shook my head at him, mouthing 'no' so he'd know, don't do this.

But there was this sudden shift in him, like he knew, here he had me good. Sunday dinner with the folks? No way I'd be anything but the sweet, good girl my parents believed me to be. In his eyes, the sudden appreciation of a chance to watch me squirm to maintain my illusionary life before mom and dad.

So Sunday dinner. What can you say? Pot roast, new potatoes, green salad with Green Goddess dressing because Mom says it's the new, 'vogue' salad dressing. Why does she care about such things? What's wrong with Thousand Island, my dad says, looking around the table for it but it's not there.

"So tell us about yourself, Bud," my dad says, passing the rolls, Bud dressed in another white shirt, black tie, dark gray sports jacket, navy blue pants, polished shoes. They've already discussed sports, found a common love of football. I'd been right; Bud had played the sport in college. Dad likes him; removes some of the illusion of masculinity from him for me.

Bud tells him about becoming a cop right out of college, life's calling, hopes to be a detective some day. Dad asks, is it true LAPD is dirty? Bud says, the papers make that shit up.

He said 'shit.' It sits out there, hanging in the air, disturbing my dad only because he said it in front of the women. We don't talk that way here, he says to Bud, his voice soft, he's liking Bud so he hates to come down hard on him. If I'd said it, he'd have sent me from the table and then lectured me for the next week.

Mom says, that's street talk and Bud must simply hear it so often in his job that he forgets the rest of us don't. She likes Bud. I can tell, finding a ready excuse for him, helping to smooth it over. Not Bud's fault, 'shit' is simply his vocabulary and he's earned it. He'll try harder not to let that word out again, she knows but doesn't say that.

Well, the salient point Bud is making is the thing that we should be discussing, I say. I like Bud, too, but I know my parents aren't too sure the papers maybe aren't right about LAPD ... and by extension Bud. And so I like watching him get that and squirm a bit in response. He pins me to my seat with a look. My mom says, yeah, I suppose you'd have to think everyone was lying but the LAPD. My dad says, have you ever shot someone in your job?

We're all looking at Bud now. He's sipping water. His color's high. I think I maybe know him well enough to know that he's not sure how he should answer that. The truth? Or cover the truth up because he's sitting smack dab in the middle of niceville suburbia and maybe we don't need the unvarnished truth.

"Yes," Bud says. He clears his throat, looks my dad in the eye. I am impressed. "No cop likes it when it happens. But it does happen. Someone has to protect this city. Someone has to be willing to do the dirty work."

I tell him later, sitting in the porch swing, drinking coffee my mom said we should take out on the porch so we could spend a bit of time alone. "That was amazing, what you said to my dad. How you said it. About your job, someone having to be there for the rest of us."

He shrugs his shoulders. I put my hand on his; it's resting on his thigh. We sit there like that, holding hands, it's sweet; I wonder what he's thinking holding hands with a nice girl like me when he's just made the point of his job having such dirty work. His voice is husky, hesitant when he says, "I should probably go."

"Why don't we go for a ride? I don't want the evening to end so soon."

That's what we do. As we're driving up into the hills, I watch him driving. I move in next to him, his arm finding its way around my shoulder, pulling me in tight to his body.  He finds a place to park, overlook, lights below, stars obscured by clouds.

He kisses like I never knew men kissed. It's sweet but it's also hungry. I've felt kisses go through me before, make me wet, hungry ... but not like this. Never quite like this. Not where I feel his tongue in my mouth and it makes me want to climb in the back seat, get under him, let him do the one thing I begin to wonder if I can do.

"No. Not here," he whispers, hoarse, urgent, frustrated. He's put my hand down his unzippered pants. I ask him if he wants to. My voice sounds small. But he says not here and I think, does he know, then?

That night, after he takes me home, after he refuses to take me to his place or a hotel, I stare at my hand. Not an hour earlier, it'd been in his pants, holding him, making him groan against me in a way that had made me nervous. Would I know what else to do? What else do you do? I was suddenly unsure. I'd never felt this way before. I'd never felt the way I had, holding him in my hand, the way it'd made me feel, a want I couldn't define or defuse.

He'd been half off his seat, leaning over to mine, his hand on my breast, his mouth on my neck. At first, I'd just kind of held him in my hand, run my thumb along, not sure I remembered what Joey Alford had wanted me to do, had showed me, saying guys like it when you did this. But then Bud had said, you can hold me tighter, you can pump, oh Lord, yeah, that's good. But then just when he'd been about to climb on top of me and I'd not done anything so much as try to help him do that because I just had this need to have him on top of me ... he'd made us stop. Not here, he'd said. I played his voice saying that, over and over, all night. For days after. That voice of his.

Friday night, he's taking me out for dinner again. I want to get him to say something other than 'not here' in that voice he'd said that in. I think I'll go mad soon if he doesn't. It's all I can think about, dinner's nothing to me, just cardboard I'm chewing on as I anticipate hearing his voice. His voice saying something other than 'not here' would maybe cause me to spontaneously combust.

When we leave the restaurant, we're in his car. Both sitting facing forward. Would you like to go dancing, he asks me, maybe someplace special you've heard of. Where do you live, I ask him.

Apartment in Long Beach, he says.

"Is it nice?" I ask.

He shrugs his shoulders. "Not really."

"You live alone?"

Now we face each other. "Would you like to see my place, Maggie?"

"Yes. I would. Very much."

In the parking lot, before we go up, he kisses me. I like the way he kisses. He leans me against the car after he helps me out, after he locks the door and shoves it shut. He just leans on me and I feel my body curve back, along the car's contours. Yes, yes, I mumble into his mouth when his hand on my back grabs my butt. Yes.

Yes.

Inside his apartment, he makes a feeble attempt to pick up stray bits of clothes, apologize for the clutter that I don't even see. Do I want a drink, he asks. Sure, I say for something to hold when I really want to hold him.

Don't I?

I think I do.

No, I know I do.

Except then he's handing me a glass with some whisky, neat one ice cube, and he's looking at me with a hunger in his eyes that suddenly scares the living daylights out of me.

I have never told him I'm a virgin.

I'm not about to now.

No way.

I want this too much.

I want this too much to happen with Bud.

But I see that look on him and I know, this is going to happen. He's a man. More man than I've ever been alone with. He knows what to do. He does it all the time. Has for years. He's so much older than me. Isn't that what I wanted? Yes, it is. But I'm still shaking and he's advancing on me. Then he touches me, his hand stroking down my side, resting on my hip, pulling me toward him. I back up instead, look at the floor, feel a hot blush infuse my chest and face.

He tries again, to touch me, a prelude, the way a man signals what he wants from a woman. I wonder what I'm supposed to do to show I want this ... I do want it, right? Yes, I do. I do. God, he's ...he's so sexy. This is sexy. The way he's looking at me, the way his eyes look, the way I can see the bulge in his pants but that he doesn't care if I do, the way his tie's half off because he's been yanking on it.

Oh God. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. He'll guess that, he will. He'll guess and I'll be mortified.

"Have you ever really been touched by a man?" His voice is husky, gently chiding me.

"Of course."

"Yeah?" He juts his chin up in the air, not believing me. Why not? Jesus Christ! I've been touched before! What's he think I am? I might not have lost my virginity but I've let a guy get to third base. Third base? What is this? I'm not with some high school kid. I'm with a man. Men don't say things like third base; neither do women. So why am I saying it inside my mind?

"Yes."

"Then why ..." he asks as he advances on me, his voice low, deceptive, soft, "... then why are you running away from me?"

"I'm not running away. I'm just ..."

"Are you a virgin, Maggie?"

"Would I be here? Why would you think that?"

"Because ..." He grabs me, pulls me right up to his chest. "Because you're trembling and I've barely touched you. But you know I want to, don't you? You know what I want. Or do you?"

"Why would you think I'm a virgin? Just because I'm 18?"

"A man should know, Maggie, before he touches a virgin if she is one. That way, he can make it right for her."

"Men don't like virgins."

He leans down, kisses my forehead. "It's not that we don't like them. That's not true. It's just that some of us take it serious, that we should be gentle, make it good, make it right. First time's important to a woman. Sometimes, a man isn't ready to be that important to a woman."

"Have you ever? Been willing ... with a virgin?"

"Depends on the virgin," he says, now holding me close, his hands both on my butt. I can feel he's hard. "But for sure, she should tell me in advance."

"Killjoy."

"What?"

"Maybe a virgin likes to be seduced. Maybe she wants ... to be forced if she gets cold feet."

"No. She doesn't want to be forced. No woman does. Trust me. If that makes me a killjoy, so be it."

"You're not. A killjoy. I just said that ... because ... because I thought you were, first time we met. Then you stopped him ... it wouldn't have been right, that being my first time. But this is right."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"Your first time?"

"Yes."

It's out before I even mean for it. I wait for him to step away, to say no, to make me feel horrible. But instead, he raises my chin, thumb under it, gentle, his eyes liquid, hooded. He kisses me; it's slow but not intense. He whispers my name, asks me why I've chosen him; he knows I chose, that I wanted it to be him.

"Because I wanted a man like you, even before I knew you, Bud."

He never responds to that, doesn't have to; it's in his eyes, his mouth, tilt to his head, his touch. He takes me to the couch, holds me, rubs circles on my back, stares in my eyes before he kisses me. Once more, unzips, lets me touch him, hold him, pump. Him whispering, encouraging me, asking me does this feel good. My blouse undone, my skirt hiked up, him lowering my back to the couch's cushions, his leg between mine, his body atop mine. Don't stop kissing me, he says, I like your kisses. Makes me smile, feel like maybe I'm doing okay. At least he knows; he's okay with showing me now that he does.

In his bed, it seems so natural. Both of us nude by then, him having undressed me as I stood in the middle of his bedroom and alternated between staring at bad prints of Midwestern landscapes on his wall and the sight of his hands smoothing my clothes off as he shifted around. I tried to undress him but got shy; him saying would I like to see him. Me nodding. His body. Yes.

Yes.

A man's body. I'll never see another man and not compare his body to Bud's. It's that good. Solid. Lean. Muscles. Big thighs, strong arms, wide chest. Look at this, too, he says, stroking his hard shaft, telling me it's nice for a man when a woman likes that part of him. I like it, I whisper, feeling less shy, touching him, stroking; his hands stroking my back as he nestles me in closer to him.

We're in the bed then, our bodies against each other, first time I've been nude next to a nude man. He says, I want you touch me wherever you want, nothing's off limits, nothing's bad about it. If you're curious about something, unsure, worried, just ask, he says. Will you fit, I ask. Yes, he whispers against my ear, his body rolling to where he's almost on top of me, me feeling his hard length pressed now against my naked hip. I'll fit, he says, it's the fitting that's good. First time, though, he says, there is some pain in the beginning then it just feels so good. Hymen, I say, remembering Sister Mary June's biology lesson, flashing on the thing she said about keeping that for marriage.

He shows me how to take him in my mouth after I ask what foreplay means. He starts telling me, all sorts of things are foreplay, we'd been doing it all night, but that it also included things you did just before, if you wanted. Like what, I ask. He says, kissing. I say, we've done that. He says, there's other kinds of kissing. I remember snippets of things I've heard, rumors. Where a man may kiss a woman. He puts his hand over my sex, between my legs, says, this is one place a man likes to kiss a woman. Oh, I whisper, liking that idea, feeling the way it feels with his hand there, not like with Ken where it hurt. He moves his finger up into me, I'm wet. He says, that's right, that's good. I want to try the kiss, I say to him. He smiles at me. Just before he moves, I say, what else, what else is foreplay, is there something for me to do. He puts his hand over where I'm still stroking him, tells me about some women liking to suck it, kiss it. I say, can I try that, is it okay?

We both like what happens. I like the way he makes me feel; he says he likes the way I make him feel. What else, I say, when he says I have to stop because he needs to go slow with me. What else can we do; I'm feeling jazzed, excited, out of my skin, don't know why, happy, a want I still am not sure I can define but this must be part of it.

Are you ready, he asks me, his body atop mine, his legs between mine, his hands on me, all over but going slowly over my skin. Spread wider, he says when I nod, eyes open round, watching how calm, sure he is. A man. A man I trust to show me. A man I chose to show me.

I'm holding his biceps, don't know what else to hold. He's looking down, to where I know he's holding his shaft; I feel it, round, big, just the tip he says, it's in me, in my opening. I gasp, let out this little cry. He stops, stays where he's at. More, I say, knowing I'm close to defining my want. Just knowing, somehow.

This may hurt, I'll make it quick, he says.

I cry out but it really is over so fast and then he's moving further inside me. Is this how it's supposed to be? And then I feel what it feels like, beyond the not knowing, beyond the mystery. He's in me. I look in his eyes. Oh, I whisper, awed. Oh.

Oh.

He moves slowly. I guess I never really thought that far, what happens next, what it is about this that feels so good it changes a woman's life, makes men ogle women, imagine them in bed together.

This is what I want, I pant out to him, him thrusting inside me, my back arching, my hands now wrapped around his back, feeling him as he moves inside me. A man. Oh, this is why a man is who you should be with, because he can do this. Oh my God, I moan, what's happening, it feels ...

"Good?" he asks me, his mouth on my neck, mumbling. I feel him tensing, his butt tensing beneath my grasping fingers.

"Oh God ... Oh ... God ... so good ... OhGod!"

It's come out as a shriek. I don't realize that til later, reliving this experience, even years later I'll remember that moment, the first time I understand the mystery.

Years later, it's something I just can't ever forget. It comes back to me at odd times. Mixed in with that memory of my first orgasm is the memory of after, the first time, crying in his arms, not understanding that how powerful it was makes it not just okay to have cried, but actually rather profound for us both that I would cry.

Now, I think I remember other details as well. The sight of his almost-bald head, that crew cut so popular even now, as he washed my body with a cloth full of warm soapy dampness. The tenderness of his touch between my legs. I was still floating on Cloud 9 when he brought me home, late at night, all the lights off in our house, me not caring how I'd explain this late arrival to my parents.

Then the nights that followed. Seeing him whenever I could, eventually getting my sister to lie for me, telling my parents I was spending the weekend with her when I'd be with Bud instead.

Even all these years later, I know one thing ... I'm still comparing every man I meet to Bud White. Not in a way that says no man's ever going to measure up, but in a way that ensures I pick wisely, that I pick a man who does in some important way, important to me, meet the standard Bud White set for the kind of man I want to be with.

I found out so much about him that summer. He's not perfect, he can be brutal; he just never was brutal with me. Me, he treated like I was the most precious thing ever created. But he told me things about his job and I could see his willingness, his ease with physical force. He was the first man I knew like that. It wasn't a bad thing, it was more that it was an unknown thing to me. I came to think of it that men have to do what men have to do. And thank God for men like Bud White, who don't think twice about protecting civilians from criminals.

The New York papers are full of the stories, for months, about LAPD corruption, the Night Owl murder case, the cops taken down in the aftermath of the jail riot. I see Bud's name; I would write to him at home, but I don't know his address. I write to him via the LAPD but I have little hope it'll get to him now that he's suspended.

You don't have to tell me a thing, I write to him. I believe in you. I know whatever has happened, you did what you believed was right.

It's been six years; I still measure every man against him. Some day, I hope to tell him that a woman doesn't need perfection or a sinless man; she needs a man she can believe in, a man who protects her, a man who makes her see that some men are unafraid to treat a woman with care, tenderness, to even get a bit of stardust in their eyes when they gaze at her.

Maybe, not too much longer, I'll take a vacation home to LA from my job here in New York. I haven't been home since I left for college except for that first Christmas vacation, a month of seeing Bud and realizing he was right, that I needed to not say I was coming back to him when I didn't know if I would. Summers after that were spent working internships, traveling to Europe when I could swing it, expanding my world every chance I got.

Somehow we lost touch. I regret that. Maybe that's one reason seeing his name, Detective Wendell White, was such a cold shock, reading it in the Post, wondering what the hell he'd done, knowing he wasn't corrupt no matter what the paper implied or said outright. Not Bud.

I'd like to see him again. My only reservation is this: have I built him up into something he never was? Do I remember him clearly? 

But then I lean back in my chair, stare out the window, and feel him inside me that first time, hear his voice, remember how he made me feel safe and good. So, yeah, I remember him clear, like glass.

He told me, to women, the first man she has, he stays important to her his whole life. He was right about that.