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In a Hot Atlanta February I am sitting on a public bus in a white trash neighborhood watching two adolescents climb onto a trampoline. The boy has shoulder-length blond hair that hangs over his eyes to cover his acne and the girl is pretty and simple in her white T-shirt tucked into her blue jeans. They hold hands as they jump, 'round and 'round, casual excitement, until they fall in a heap. The boy leans over and kisses her unmade lips. I remember Times like that. I remember what the boy has yet to experience, the taste of her hot cool wet tongue, the soft innocent curves of her budding, breathless body, young hearts beating fast and erratic together and the moment of her tight virginity, of his tender virginity. I remember what he will experience next, because virgin love never lasts (We always believe it will, even after we know better) when he becomes mean and tired and cynical and spends his nights alone masturbating and thinking about blowjobs from strange women. That's when he won't appreciate the hot Atlanta Februarys at all.
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