Touch me, baby, bite my tongue

I got my first job when I was fourteen, working for the Kinsmen Club of Calgary at the Calgary Stampede. I worked in a team of four, two guys, two girls. Our job was simple: at pre-arranged times throughout the day, we would carry food and water to the various Kinsmen booths spread throughout the Stampede grounds. The booth-dwellers welcomed us gratefully, especially on the hot days. We would then drag our empty jugs back to the Kinsmen office and sit around, waiting for the next run.

The girls were older, fifteen I think. The other guy was older still, sixteen or seventeen. At fourteen, I was awkward, introverted and lacking that key piece of common sense that helps teenagers make friends.

I brought a book with me, probably something by Anne McCaffrey or David Eddings. And while I can't remember exactly, I'm sure I found some chair in the corner and read my book while the others played poker, or blackjack, or backgammon. I didn't really understand those games, nor did I understand that the games weren't the point.

Being stuck in a room with them for eight hours a day, it was inevitable that I would develop a crush on the girls. But, of course, I had no idea how to approach them, so I sat in my corner, ate my packed lunch, and inserted hasty comments into whatever conversation they were having. My awkwardness must have shone like a beacon, because eventually, when they got bored of card games or flirting, they turned to me.

They asked me if I'd ever kissed a girl, which I hadn't.

"Yeah, of course," I said, blushing.

"With tongue?" one of the girls asked.

I gave her what I hoped was a withering glare, seeped in disdain. With tongue? Is there a kiss without tongue? Give me a break.

I guess the glare worked, because the questioning stopped. They accepted that, okay, the nerd had a little more play than they'd expected. I went back to my book in quiet humiliation, my face burning.

A song came on the radio - "Ghetto Supastar (That Is What You Are)" by Pras, featuring Mya and ODB. One of the girls squealed, turned to the guy.

"Will you sing along with me?" she asked.

He shook his head, no way, turned back to his cards. Sulking, she looked around the room and caught my eye.

"Do you know this song?" she asked. I didn't.

"Yeah, of course," I replied.

"Will you sing along with me?" she asked. "I never have a guy to sing the guy parts with me."

"Uh," I said. "Nah. No, sorry."

"Come on! Why not?"

"I don't sing," I said firmly, and that was that. The guy looked up, nodded at me. Solidarity. Dudes don't sing. The girl shrugged, sighed, went back to watch the cards. And on our crackly radio, the song played.

Run away with me, to another place.
We can rely on each other, uh-huh.
From one corner to another, uh-huh.