At least one character in this short tale did exist; the other, Dorothy is a composite, a bit of my mother (though the time frame is long before my father met my mother) and who knows who else. The other aspect I like about this story is its reference to the 40s, the Astor Roof and Frankie, who made all the girls swoon.
There was little one could do to control the peregrinations of the spinning bottle. I could only hope that when it stopped, the alignment would not be myself on one and Dorothy on the other.
Fate has a malicious way of calculating the odds against which we are pitted in life. It almost makes one a believer in predestination. Dorothy beat the percentages beyond reasonable expectations, and I would brush my lips, fleetingly, against her omnipresent pucker, and mutter imprecations against "Lady Luck".
Now, in retrospect, Dorothy was indeed the most attractive of the preteen girls of the "Spin the Bottle" and "Post Office" kissing games. Early youth seeking a bit of that legendary sinful apple.
She was tall and slim. Perhaps on the threshold of thirteen, wide spaced very black eyes contrasting wit very white skin; a flashing smile brought points of light to her eyes.
I did not see her that way, then. This is all in retrospect. Young men have no sense of beauty. Their nascent drives are guided by a kind of visual anosmia. Perhaps a good thing given the meager distribution of beauty in our species.
I might have noticed the latent charm were it not that I had an uncompromising mental block; her severe hairdo--tight wavy tresses, parted in the center exposing an over-travailed whiteness of scalp in the very center of her head, and brushed severely back as if to obliterate purposely the minuscule curls in her hair.
In those days, it was Margie who had my attention.
To be fair, I must describe her also in retrospect, which is not the way I saw her in those early days of revelations.
She was short, sandy haired, wide hipped and large breasted for her age. Yet for all this, I was smitten. I thrilled when I would hear her voice, announcing from another room that the "Postman had a letter" for me.
Margie was skilled in delivering the mail. This was no hurried peck. She would come close to me, find some need to correct an errant button on my shirt, all the time leaning tastefully against my chest with her breasts. When we kissed, her little tongue darted quickly between my unopened lips, sending newly generated waves of pleasure through my awakening body.
Still, all these kisses were of rudimentary meaning in terms of that ubiquitous question asked by teachers of English exposition, or suspicious wives; "What was your first kiss like?"
Our teen years passed quickly. Some of us had cars--usually the Model A type Ford, some with that appendage in the rear known as the "Rumble seat', parenthetically an ideal place to pursue the study of kissing and related arts.
We were a tight knit social group up to the years of ferry rides to Staten Island, and trips to the dance casinos of upstate New York. There was no serious pairing. Margie did not confine her passion to correct wayward buttons to any one male. Dorothy and I were thrown together often, by unanticipated circumstance.
Several times we spent unproductive proximity in one of the wind-blown rumble seats of the day.
I remember the year of that prom. I will not give the date, but it was a memorable event. The Astor Hotel had not been demolished. Tommy Dorsey was holding forth on the celebrated Astor Roof and an emaciated Frank Sinatra was the vocal headliner.
Margie and Dorothy had no dates for their prom. Time was passing. Dorothy was forced to settle for her brother, Paul, as her escort. Margie exerted her historic proprietary rights and I was allowed the privilege of escorting her.
Paul was an aspiring stage actor, tall, poised, sophisticated, who was scheduled for a screen test in Hollywood. He drove the car with the open rumble seat.
I was not totally surprised to find that Margie had maneuvered herself into the seat beside the driver. Fate had interposed her will, again. Dorothy and I shared the rumble seat.
Somehow I was not displeased. I had never seen Dorothy as she was on this night. She was tall, poised, confident. A simple black gown draped daringly from one shoulder, leaving the other bare. It revealed the perfection of her figure.
The center parted hairdo was gone. She had allowed her hair to grow, and the weight of the growth had removed the tight waviness. Her long black hair was unencumbered and hung with its mass covering the exposed shoulder, to the front. She had discovered her own beauty.
Margie now devoted her full attention to Paul. He had no buttons on his shirt for her to manipulate, but she found his formal black tie frequently askew and in need of correction.
Dorothy was radiant. She was enchanted with the Astor Roof Garden and clearly a fan of Frank Sinatra. We danced almost every dance together. She danced well, and abandoned herself to the rhythms, lissome and unrestrained. For a good portion of the time, we stood with most of the dancers simply swaying to the beat of the Dorsey band in front of the bandstand when Frank was singing.
I had no reluctance in being relegated to the rumble seat for the ride home. It was cold and Dorothy moved close to me. I searched for a blanket in the dark recesses of the rumble, but there was none. I placed my arm around her and drew her close. She rested her head on my shoulder, looked up, and offered her slightly parted lips upward.
We kissed, that is, she kissed me and I responded, long searching kisses such as I had never known before. I responded though with some puzzlement at her ardor. I had never shown her the attention that would merit such pleasure. Her face was white in the moonlight, her eyes closed, her lips alive and apart, through which cool halting breaths accompanied each kiss.
This was truly my first kiss, unexpected, revelatory, remembered and cherished for many years, a brief, early glimpse into that labyrinthine psyche of woman.
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