Every man remembers the first time he copped a feel. My first happened in the woods by my house during seventh-grade Christmas break. I felt confident due to the new badass Nirvana T-shirt I wore under my flannel shirt. The breast belonged to Mona, a sultry Mexicana. I thought she looked like a Fly Girl dancer on "In Living Color." 

Paler than the rest of her coffee skin, her breasts glowed angelically. They were the size of grapefruits. Sadly, like grapefruits, they were bittersweet. Mona moved away the next week and didn't even say goodbye. 

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The first day back school, I looked at my friends gathered around our lunch table and blurted out, "Mona and I did it over break."

"Did what?" Jimmy asked. 

"It, you know, it," I said. 

I hadn't planned on lying. Maybe my badass Nirvana T-shirt possessed me or maybe I knew Mona couldn't deny it, either way my friends didn't believe me. They didn't believe me because Stephen King novels and 12-sided dice littered our lunch table. Of my friends, I was the only one who even remotely interacted with girls. They insisted on proof. 

I'd heard girls bled during their first time. That night, I stole a razor blade from my dad's medicine cabinet. I cut a few incisions on the inside of my calf and held a pair of white Simpsons' boxers to the blood. Poor Bart looked like an O.J. victim. 

The next day I gathered my friends in a corner and opened my pants. 

"What the hell?" said the geek collective. 

"She bled on my boxers. Do you believe me now?" 

They were perplexed. I explained in frenzy that girls bleed their first time. They slowly nodded and examined the spots again. They looked just like my father when he pops the car hood. They had no idea what they were looking at. 

Admitting defeat, the consensus decided to consult an expert. Shannon Darnile, an eighth-grader, had slept with seven high school guys and Joe Watson, a junior-higher with a mustache. She chain-smoked in eyesight of school. Her hair-sprayed bangs towered like Sauron. We feared her deeply. 

However, in the name of science and truth, my friends became confident and dragged me to where Shannon presided, Stoner Corner. Surprisingly gracious, she understood why we sought her and agreed to give an expert opinion. 

Nervously I unbuttoned my pants, certain she would expose me as a liar. She read the stain on my quivering crotch as if it were a crystal ball. After an eternity, she announced, "This boy has been laid!" 

My memory wants to tell me that everyone cheered, my friends boosted me on their shoulders, and carried me away like Corey Haim in "Lucas." 

What really happened is this: One friend cheered, tried to boost me on his shoulder by himself, and my chubby body toppled down. I stood up and cheered like I'd meant to do it. Jody, a boy with Down syndrome, stood nearby and cheered, something he did instinctively whenever there were cheers. 

The Stoners stared at us, wondering why we were still there. Not meeting one another's eyes, my friends and I power-walked away in separate directions. 

A few years ago, Mona found me on MySpace. I sent her the above story. Big-hearted, she agreed to meet and give me her perspective. 

Do you remember becoming my girlfriend?
I don't think you ever officially asked me. You were too shy. We just hung out.

I thought we were together for a couple months. 
(laughs) I don't remember that. But, even my mom teases me for having a horrible memory. When I first read your story, it was hilarious to me, because I didn't remember it. I was like, "Whoa, this girl sounds so easy. What a slut!"

Do you remember going in the woods? 
Yes, but not like you told it. We didn't go to second base. 

We totally did! 
I'm pleading the fifth on that. If anything happened it was really quick.

I remember an intense make-out session. 
Yeah, you do score points there. 

To this day, I remember what your boobs look like. 
I don't think you've ever seen them. 

You were wearing a sports bra. 
Probably, I wore them a lot for basketball. 

See? 
That doesn't prove anything. 

You were my first French kiss. Was I yours? 
No, I dated a guy before I moved to your town. When I moved back to Chino Valley, we got back together and he's my daughter's father. 

Why didn't you say goodbye when you moved? 
I wanted to. I walked up to your house, but you weren't outside. 

And you didn't knock on my door? 
I was afraid of your mom. You told me she was strict. 

I never said that. 
Maybe you were just embarrassed of me in front of your parents. 

I wasn't embarrassed of you. My mom just hates Mexicans.
(She laughs) She would have thought I was the cleaning lady. 

(We laugh)

Wait, my mom's not racist. I want the record to show that. 
You're writing this. You decide how racist to make her. 

Did you ever hear my lie from old friends? 
No! I had no idea my reputation was down the drain.

Sorry. 
It's OK. Did I answer all your questions? 

You really don't remember showing me your boobs?
I remember you touching them, but I don't remember showing you them. 

Now the truth comes out!
Now you got me thinking ...