Stories I only tell my friends de Rob Lowe
‘I want to french you.’
‘You… you want to what me?’
‘French you! I want to french you!’
I’m sitting underneath a stage platform, in the dark, with a cute girl dressed in a Jitterbug costume. We are rehearsing a community-theater rendition of The Wizard of Oz. I’m about ten years old, she is thirteen.
‘What do you mean ‘french’ me?’
‘It’s kind of a kiss. Don’t you know that?’
I nod earnestly, but I have no idea what she’s talking about. I do know that she’s older and makes a very pretty Jitterbug. But “frenching” is not in my vocabulary, and I’m petrified of what is clearly about to go down.