The first time I touched a woman, her name was Kate, and we were in the eighth grade, and I didn’t want to. We were at a party with the boys—her boyfriend and mine, and some other miscellaneous friends. We had gotten a bottle of vodka somewhere, probably somewhere illegal, and we were passing it between us. I don’t remember who or why, but someone said that Kate and I should kiss. They didn’t phrase it like that—it was less a command and more of a distant, almost academic observation. Something like, “gawd, it’s really fucking hot when girls kiss.” Our task was, nevertheless, clear.