Getting in by borrowing a girlfriend's fake ID. She had a couple of beers and then went to the ladies' room where she found that the walls were made of blackboard slate. There was a tray with chalk so people could write whatever they wanted to on the walls on the theory that it would always be erased but someone had wanted to leave a message with more permanence. So, she had scratched her initials and date into the slate.

You couldn't win. People simply had to do it. Maybe that was why they did it, because you couldn't win. They had to scratch their initials into trees, make footprints in wet cement, spray paint their names on highway overpasses, often coupled with the names of a boy or girlfriend. It was a way of making their presence felt in a world where no one took the time to get to know them. Initials in a heart. We were here. We did this. We lived. We loved.

She thought of Jack, of his slim strong body. The feel of his warm skin. His lips on hers. The way he felt inside her. God, she had wanted him so much. Al the time they'd known each other. Every time they'd almost done it. Come so close that they had both ached with the need for one another. Al the time she pulled back when she really wanted to tear his clothes off and attack him.

She wondered if she had been his first. He certainly hadn't acted as if he was uncertain or inexperienced, but then, would a guy admit it if he was? No. She guessed that Jack probably had girls before and the fact that he hadn't rushed her had made it that much more special. She wondered if he knew she was on the pill. He'd never ask her but he probably assumed she was, figuring she would have said something if she wasn't. Although, she knew girls who didn't use anything but didn't let that stop them. Stupid.

She wondered if he had thought she was a virgin. In fact, she wasn't. Though she had not been on the pill when she had done it the first time. It hadn't been smart and it certainly hadn't been special.

It was long before she met Jack. She had only been 15. The experience left much to be desired. Some of her girlfriends had talked about saving it for when they got married. Or at least for the right guy.

But that idea had always bothered her. How did you know? How did you know when it was right?

How could you know if it was really good with someone that you cared about if you had no basis for comparison? And she had no desire to wait until she got married to have sex.