WEBVTT

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This one is for the girls
[? from ?] [? now. ?] Where'd it

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go?

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Don't you hate this
when this happens?

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Oh, I know, I pulled it out.

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Here it is.

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This one's called "Practicing."

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It's for the girls.

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"Practicing."

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I want to write a love
poem for the girls

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I kissed in seventh
grade, a song for what we

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did on the floor in the
basement of somebody's parents'

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house, a hymn for what we
didn't say but thought--

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"That feels good,"
or "I like that"

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when we learned how to
open each other's mouths,

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how to move our tongues
to make somebody moan.

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We called it practicing, and one
was the boy, and we paired off--

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maybe six or eight girls--

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and turned out the lights
and kissed and kissed

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until we were stoned on kisses,
and lifted our nightgowns

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or let the straps drop,
and, now you be the boy--

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concrete floor, sleeping bag
or couch, playroom, game room,

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train room, laundry.

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Linda's basement was like a
boat with booths and portholes

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instead of windows.

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Gloria's father had
a bar downstairs

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with stools that
spun, plush carpeting.

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We kissed each other's throats.

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We sucked each other's breasts,
and we left marks and never

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spoke of it upstairs, outdoors,
in daylight, not once.

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We did it, and it was
practicing, and slept,

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sprawled so our legs
still locked or crossed,

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a hand still lost
in someone's hair.

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And we grew up and
hardly mentioned

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who the first kiss really was--

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a girl like us, still
sticky with a moisturizer

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we had shared in the bathroom.

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I want to write a song for
that thick silence in the dark,

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and the first pure thrill
of unreluctant desire,

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just before we made
ourselves stop.

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[APPLAUSE]

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