The first butt crack I ever recall seeing is the one that belonged to Marley*.
We'd been swimming in an inflatable pool when he asked me, suddenly, if I wanted to be mooned. I nodded eagerly. If there was a rulebook telling me wrong from right, I'd never heard of it. I was utterly smitten with him. He was the boy I'd follow off of a bridge.
Then he pulled down his pants, inches from my face, and let one rip.
Marley was my childhood best friend.
Something changed in the months before kindergarten year. During one sleepover and after bath time, my mum pulled me into a room.
"I didn't know Marley was a boy," she told me — his long hair had fooled her for a while. Her lips were half smiling, her eyes were dancing. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to tease me for having a boyfriend — but it wasn't like that. Marley was just my friend. My greatest friend in the world.
It didn't matter what anyone thought, things were changing anyway.
"They are a bit odd," she told me the last time I saw him.
I'd held his hand through the car door window, told him I'd see him soon and watched his mum's beaten-up Honda throw dirt in the air as they drove away. Marley moved to another state a little while after. His mum wanted to leave Brisbane, but we didn't know where they ended up. He was my first real friend. And now he wasn't my friend at all.