First Time by Meg Tilly

with Ben. We’re the only ones left in the living room. Sadie and Ben disappeared into Ben’s bedroom, and Lynn and Chad are borrowing Mike’s. Lynn almost forgot to take her purse in, but I scooped it up and handed it to her. “Don’t you want your gum?” I said. So even though Mike’s a very boring guy,it’s a good thing I came along. Because what good are condoms if you leave them on the coffee table in your purse?
    This sofa is quite old, a faded gray plaid with thin, rust-colored stripes. It’s a sort of scratchy material, with about a million knobby fabric pills on it. When I first got here I was nervous. I wasn’t paying attention to what my hands were doing, and I pulled off a couple of the pills by accident. Luckily, I caught myself and stuffed the evidence in the front pocket of my jeans before anybody noticed.
    “Yes!” Mike yells, pumping his fist in the air. He turns to high-five me. I high-five him back. I guess the Canucks scored again. The announcer’s saying something about Henrik Sedin, whoever that is. Must be one of the players.
    “Is this a great game or what?” Mike says happily.
    Now if it was Lynn and me sitting here, I’d say, “or what,” but I don’t think Mike would get my humor. Personally, I don’t get the attraction of hockey. It’s hard tosee where the puck is on the tv, and all these little figures are racing around the ice, beating each other up. It seems like a lot of energy just to try to get the little black puck past the guy in the net. Big deal. And another thing that I find hard to watch is all the spitting. Like really, is that necessary? You’re on national tv. Do we really need to see snotty mucus streaming from your mouth? No matter. I’m a guest in this guy’s apartment.
    “Yeah,” I say, “it’s great.”
    The tv goes to commercial. Mike leans forward to get himself a handful of chips that are lying on the coffee table. It’s a good thing I brought them, because it’s the only snack out. This guy doesn’t eat them one by one like I do. He rolls them around in his hand for a second and then tips his head back and pours the whole handful in. I wonder if he practiced that. Maybe he thinks it looks manly or something. Like, hey baby, look how many chips I can fit into my mouth in one fell swoop.
    Once the handful of chips has been dealt with, he stretches, and next thing I know his arm lands around my shoulders. I’m not sure what to do. So I just sit there, looking at the tv like this beer commercial is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.
    “I could use a beer,” Mike says.
    “Yeah, me too,” I say.
    I’m just making conversation, but I guess Mike doesn’t know that, because he gets up, disappears around the kitchen divider and comes back looking pleased, two cans of beer in his hand. He pops one open, hands it to me and then sits down even closer, so our thighs are touching. He opens his beer, replaces his other arm around my shoulders and takes a long slurp. I take a sip, but I hold the beer tipped up to my mouth for a little bit longer so it looks like I’m drinking it properly. I don’t really like the taste of beer.
    I hear a moan come from Mike’s bedroom. I hope it’s a good kind of moan and not a that-is-really-hurting one. I’ve heard it sometimes hurts the first timeyou do it. I wonder if they’re doing it or if they’re just fooling around. That would be weird. Me sitting here on the sofa, watching the Canucks, while Lynn loses her virginity.
    The commercial is over and the hockey players are whizzing around the rink. I guess this must be some pretty exciting game because Mike’s hands are a little bit sweaty. My shoulder, where his hand is resting, is sort of moist and warm.
    “Aw...Damn,” he says. Somebody on the ice has done something wrong.
    “What?” I say.
    “Penalty,” he says. His eyes are fixed on the tv. But I feel his hand start to move on a downward trajectory toward my breast, and my heart starts