Delicate Flower

When I was a kid my best friend was the little boy across the street. We loved fighting with each other almost as much as we liked playing with each other, and we spent most days together. We'd run around barefoot and set fireworks off into the swamp behind his house, and he'd let me watch him play video games. (The few times we played together and I won he'd turn the console off in a huff and sent me home.)

About every other weekend we'd have a sleepover. His room had two beds, and I had a bunk bed. We'd take turns, but I remember going to his house more because they had structured dinners, video games, and his parents didn't care if we watched South Park. And that went along for years. But about when I turned 11 things changed a bit.

Nick and I discovered hickeys. And I don't mean we gave them to each other. We discovered that we could give ourselves bruises just by sucking on our arms and legs, and we thought they looked bad ass. I'd given myself one on my upper arm, above my arm pit. But I sensed without being told that my parents wouldn't be happy to see this. So I'd covered it with a band aid. It was a day or two later when I forgot about it. My mom came into the bathroom when I was getting out of the shower and saw my arm.

There was a big fuss. I remember even my Nana being told, and expressing loud doubt as to whether I could even reach my arm there with my mouth. I turned my head and showed her. But it was clear because I'd tried to hide it that all the adults thought hanky panky was going on. I don't even know why they thought I'd let Nick suck on my arm, but adults, y'know?

So it was a few weeks later that I asked if I could spend the night at Nick's. My parents were reluctant, which confused me. They said yes, but then when I was about to leave, my dad stopped me and sat me down. I remember he didn't want to look at me. "So... You're a delicate flower." I turned green. My older siblings had already riddled my psyche with the horrors of sex, and I very much didn't want to be listening to this. "And Nick is a bee," he continued, oblivious to my mounting nausea, "and if you're not careful, he'll sting you. And if he does, just make sure you use protection. And there's no need to tell Nick we had this talk." Yeah right. And I mean, real quick, props to my parents for saying to use protection rather than forbidding me and being sex positive but also, goddamn, 11 was too young for that shit.

I ran over and spilled the whole bizarre conversation within moments. We sat in awkward silence and then laughed for a long time. We tried to forget about it, but that was definitely our last sleepover. Sometimes we still see each other, and when we do, occasionally one of us will say, "Do you remember our last sleep over...?" And we'll start laughing incoherently, with phrases like, "delicate flower" and "be careful, he'll sting you" thrown in.