For years, whenever my parents drove by Hero’s Chocolate Shoppe, I asked if we could stop but they refused. My father offered lame excuses with promises to one day take me but that day never seemed to come. The more he resisted, the greater my desire grew. He couldn’t keep us apart forever. Living in the rural outskirts of town, I was unable to ride my bicycle to the store. It was located in a neighboring city about twenty five miles away. Without access to public transportation, all I could do was live vicariously through the stories of others. Everyone knew of the place and had a different reason for liking it. A strange smile appeared on each person’s lips as they reminisced with ecstatic bliss of their visits. “It’s just chocolate. How good can it be?” I once asked a friend. “It’s not just chocolate,” his father interjected. “They do something special there. It’s one of those places you’ve got to experience first hand to understand.” Whenever my sister’s boyfriend talked about going there, his voice filled with enthusiasm. He made it sound like the store was magical, a place where every chocolate lover’s fantasy came true. Dreams of confectionary goodness danced around in my head. I often wished my feet reached the pedals so I could drive my parents car and see what everyone boasted about. Being only twelve years old, the idea was just another unfulfilled fantasy. “Someday,” I thought. “Someday.” The years ticked by and the store continued to flourish. It was written about in the newspaper and even made the local news in a fluff piece. In one of the articles I learned that the building had been used for a brothel in the late 1800’s. Each year on Valentine’s Day, and many times in between, my father visited the store but never invited me. At least he brought home candied treats for everyone to share. Each of us had our favorites. My sister preferred the nutted variety while my mother sucked on hard candies. When the chocolates erupted a gooey discharge into my mouth, it brought about a rapturous feeling of content. A few weeks before my seventeenth birthday, my father held out his car keys and jingled them, asking if I wanted to practice for my upcoming driving test. With permission to drive anywhere desired, I took advantage of the offer and snatched the keys from his hand. After motoring along the quiet country roads for months, it was time to venture into the city for the first time. There was only one place I really wanted to go. Located in Philadelphia, Hero’s was on the first floor of the Landmark Hotel, a building which was registered with the historical society. It was the oldest building in town. Visible from the street, the red neon lights that hung inside the windows advertised the candy store was open for business. I pulled into the parking lot without giving it a second thought but hesitated before thrusting into the first available space. The spot appeared too small. I wasn’t well practiced with parking and tensed up, which effected my performance. Feeling the weight of my father’s judgment bearing down on me didn’t help. He sensed my nervousness. “Take your time,” he reassured. “Practice makes perfect.” I realized my initial approach had been wrong and moved forward and back several times. It turned out to be a perfect fit. A loud sigh of exuberant satisfaction escaped my mouth as I started to get out of the car. My father, on the other hand, made no attempt to move, other than to retrieve his wallet. “Not coming?” I asked. “You don’t need me to hold your hand,” he replied, pressing a crisp hundred dollar bill into my palm. “Besides, you’re always gonna remember your first time. Enjoy it.” “Can I get you anything?” He rejected the offer but suggested tasting a sample first before deciding what to buy. “They let you try a little bit of everything,” he added. “Everything.” Walking into the store, the seductive fragrance of chocolate wafted through the air. It was intoxicating. Four different display cases were staggered throughout the store, each with a different theme of edibles. The ladies of the evening work shift had just arrived. With skirts that hung well above their knees and shirt collars well below their shoulders, each demanded as much attention as the chocolate, if not more. It was no surprise that the store was filled with male customers. I plucked a number from the ticket dispenser and waited for my turn to arrive. Looking around, I tried not to gawk and drool at the eye candy, though found it impossible to focus on anything else. The anticipation had been building for years. The last thing I wanted was for my virginal voyeurism to peak prematurely. It would shaft me out of the euphoric experience described by others. Standing near the corner of one of the display cases, a girl called out my number. Lost in a daydream, I didn’t hear her until she shouted it a second time. When she introduced herself as Samantha, I found it difficult to make eye contact and stared at the countertop while we spoke. Slowly placing a phallic shaped piece of candy between her lips, she asked, “First time?” “Is it that obvious?” I replied. “Don’t worry, sugar. It’s my first time, too. I won’t bite, at least not right away.” “I’ve been looking forward to coming here for years.” She walked around the counter to where I stood. Taking my hand, she escorted me throughout the place, pointing out the various delights. “Have you ever seen fudge being made?” she asked. “It gets slapped around pretty hard, if you’re into that sort of thing.” I tried to offer a witty response but stuttered and stumbled over my words. The only part of the sentence that was coherent was the word “whipped”. Samantha lowered her gaze as she covered her mouth and responded with a nervous giggle. With a tightened grasp of my hand, she whispered, “This really is your first time. Maybe I should show you the private rooms in the back, where all the magic happens?” Hand in hand, we walked into the kitchen. Several confectionary chefs scurried about trying to keep up with the demand of the customers. As we crossed the room, Samantha scooped up several chocolate covered cherry cordials and handed one to me. “Is this the happy ending?” I asked, popping one into my mouth. “Of course not,” she said, pointing to an adjoining private room. “You still have to put on protection.” She handed me a latex rubber glove at the same time I bit into the candy. I hoped it wasn’t the only cherry to be popped that afternoon.