My first kiss made me sick. I was twelve years old and the big sloppy mouthed boy engulfed my lips. I should have slapped him, but I’ve never been good at confrontation.
There was a creek that bordered the grounds of the church camp. A wooded area that gave excellent cover for romantic trysts surrounded it. “Walks to the creek” had become a favorite pastime for pubescent campers, though I’m quite sure this was not part of the standard camp curriculum.
In my naïve mind, romance centered on holding hands and private conversations; so when this nice looking young man asked me down to the creek, I accepted.
My older sister Gwen must have been wiser in the ways of the world for she doubted his intentions and grilled him extensively about his plans. Having assured her, with the sincerity of a salesman, that we truly were just…
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