Second Base
I drive her up the mountain in my parents’ borrowed minivan. The summit promises a beautiful view over the entire city, and possibly a beautiful view of what’s under her bra. We hold hands as I drive up the switchbacks. The precariousness of the drive doesn’t even enter my mind as I glance over at her. It feels like love is starting to bloom, and her gorgeous low-cut blouse, her slim white neck, and her big lips and big eyes make me feel a longing of such intensity and passion that I need to suck in a breath of air. We reach the summit, and park the cars on the overlook. We feel like we’re in the 1950s, with a love just innocent enough to make what we’re about to do seem rebellious but not quite licentious.
“What’s your favorite star?” she asks, staring at the sky through the windshield.
“That one,” I reply, pointing at Venus.
“Is that a star or a planet?” she asks naïvely.
“I don’t know.” My reply is equally naïve.
We talk of the universe, of life, of love, of the future, of the past. We talk of all those things lovers talk about. I start kissing her and she starts kissing me back. We are clumsy, but passions boil underneath. Eventually, lost in each other, we start removing each other’s shirts. I fumble at her bra, and eventually get it off. I stare down at her breasts and notice that where the left nipple should be, instead there is a honeycomb of a dozen or so tiny cavities, each the size of a pencil eraser, each with a parasitic maggot firmly entrenched in its home.