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Karla Keffer

Tom was one of the few guys at my school who was nice to me. He was two years older than I was, but he hung out with my friends and me after school - he had to wait for his brother to pick him up because they lived in a school district that didn’t have bus service, I think. He was cute - not gorgeous, but that was fine, because in my experience, the most gorgeous guys were also the nastiest.

I thought I would die when Tom started going out with one of my friends, because I’d decided he was the only possibility of my ever getting kissed. But they broke up after three weeks or so, and one afternoon a few months later, I found myself alone in the school library with Tom. We’d taken to poking and tickling each other, which was nothing brothers and sisters wouldn’t do, but I kept hoping until that afternoon, when we were poking and tickling, Tom asked if I wanted to make out. The only condition was, I couldn’t tell anyone. Since I was thirteen, I was fine with that. We made out for about an hour in the deserted library, necking and petting, until his brother showed up to take him home. Fortunately, we’d heard him coming. It was probably the best makeout session I’ve ever had - Tom was an amazing kisser, so gentle - but it still bugs me that I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. And I didn’t for years, until Tom graduated from high school and I figured it was safe.

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