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�Do you want me to kiss you?�

I thought carefully before answering. Seems it shouldn�t be such a loaded question. Guy was my co-star in the play, my character�s love interest, regrettably only about my height but still very handsome by many people�s standards.

I�d been waiting for that sort of question for years. Eighteen and a half, to be exact. My friends teased me about my �virgin lips.� Fellow deprived pals (usually at least two years younger than I) would make �NBK� (Never Been Kissed) our slogan, writing it in corners of yearbooks and closing lines of e-mails, as a joke, as a cry for action (quite literally), as a wry resignation.

I�d learned to accept it, almost. Through the casualties of the twelve-step program they call school, through many frustrating dances standing hopefully in my aura of pretty (or at least prettier), through a six-month �relationship� with a boy who believed in taking courtly love to extremes.

I wondered what it was about me. Friends that I honestly considered less pretty than I (and we all know we have them, and who they are� it doesn�t make me a bitch to admit it) were telling stories of boyfriends or crushes, parties, occasionally even having to fend off an unwanted mushy-lipped boy, while I listened to their horror stories and secretly fought envy. I spent hours staring at my mouth in the mirror: the upper lip with hardly any divot, the bottom lip that was fuller than the top, the two combined that were a modest peach at best, unlike those Venus-blessed coral-lipped beauties who needed clear gloss and nothing more to draw hordes of eager smoochers. I practiced on my forearm and my teddy bear from age eleven, just like any other self-respecting fifth grader, but had yet to test my technique.

And here he was, this dark-eyed friend, interrupting my conversation with Andrew by charging up, looking dazed, and telling a story of how he kissed two other girls in the middle of the cast party currently roaring inside while we stood there, leaning against the air conditioning unit outside, the updraft rippling under my shirt. If Guy wasn�t fully three sheets to the wind, he was at least two and a half, as was Andrew, standing next to me with a beer in his hand. Guy told us how he kissed the two girls, and I made a joke about not wanting my first one to be like that.

Guy looked at me in surprise, asking, �You�ve never had tongue?�

�I�ve never had lip.� I would never have admitted it in highschool, but I'd realized that friends don't care.

Besides, it was gratifying when I got reactions like Andrew turning to me incredulously, asking, "Really? A pretty girl like you?"

And then Guy turned his sympathetic, sweet, liquidy dark eyes on me and asked so earnestly, �Do you want me to kiss you?�

I could imagine kissing Guy. It wasn�t inconceivable. Alexis, who played my mother in the play, had confessed to a small crush on him herself. Guy had nice lips. It was my job, for my character, to study him for lengthy periods and so convey my �longing,� and it was impossible not to notice that he was at least moderately attractive, if not exactly my type.

But just two minutes ago, Andrew, one of my favorite new friends (and definitely my favorite gay man) had confessed a secret and unabiding love for Guy, as well. And here Guy was, mostly drunk, entirely serious, offering something I�d waited for all my life.

I hadn�t planned it like this. Not swaying against an air conditioner. Not with the beat of techno music pounding through the wall next to us. Not with my ankles wet in dewy grass. Not with Andrew standing next to me, watching. But after eighteen years of waiting, I�d learned that opportunities didn�t just spring up every day. And yet�

�Um� no thanks.� A smile, adding, �No offense.�

He grinned and blinked slowly, turning a drunken lurch into a nonchalant lean against the brick wall.

Relief was as unexpected as it was intense. This wouldn�t be the night I e-mailed my friends about the much-anticipated moment. This wouldn�t be the choice that went down in infamy in my mind.

I figure there has to be more to it than that. That's like waiting in line for two hours to ride the teacups at Disneyworld. It's arbitrary, it's nauseating, and there's a good chance your partner will throw up afterwards.

Though I have to admit I still think about that moment.

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