Game day one, you know I’ll be under the bleachers, smoking those filterless cigarettes and drinking cheap malt liquor. You told me not to stay there, to come out into the sun, to see the first touch down of the season, to live like Margot and the whale who swallowed her whole. I said it’s easier to live in the shadows than to risk the burn of brightness. I always touched you in the wrong place, I wanted something from you under the bleachers, that I couldn’t have otherwise. You flicked a Zippo and ignored my advances. I was just a girl and you were some kind of man, in those levis and your punk rock shirts. Knowing how to handle this wild-fire, that was what you said. Never feed it dry grass, leave it licking wet wood. Then you grabbed me, by the belt loops, you pushed me down and unbuttoned me. You lifted my shirt, that day, you peeled off your all American jeans, you slipped down my panties, and you kissed me really hard, like we were going to die during that game. You explored me with your tongue, inside my mouth, inside something deeper. I knew someone was watching. This was too good to stop. When you had me naked in the dirt, you took your hand between my legs and pushed hard against my virginity. Then you took yourself, I knew I was a woman at that moment, with your strong body aching and arching through my pelvis. You moaned and I moaned I followed suit, I found myself rooting for the home team as you pulled me on top of you and we slip and slide to ecstasy. I felt you fill me, but you didn’t stop, you were never going to stop, you said, you loved me too much, too deep and too dirty. I didn’t see it coming, but I’d always wanted it, torn t-shirt, broken zipper, lost panties, under the bleachers at our home game.