(Sort of) My First Kiss:
Her name was Kathleen F., it was second grade, and I was walking her home from school. I was one of the students who rode the school bus, so I didn't know the neighborhood. We had walked for about six blocks, and I didn't know how much farther it was to her house. I got tired of walking so far, was worried that I'd miss the bus, and thought I had been gone too long, so I told her that I was going back to the school. She didn't say anything, so I leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She didn't know what to do or say, and neither did I, so an awkward silence set in. I said goodbye and ran back to the school.
My (Real) First Kiss:
Her name was Barbara N., it was ninth grade, and she was on the yearbook committee. At lunchtime, she had access to the print shop, and was working alone one day, so she invited me to keep her company. Looking back, I now realize that there was no work to be done, and that's why no one else was there. She wasn't supposed to be there either, but . . .
Once the doors were locked, we made small-talk. At one point, she sighed loudly and told me that sometimes she just felt as if she needed a hug. Like the 15-year-old clueless idiot that I was, I wondered who could give her a hug. A minute later, she was standing right in front of me, our faces mere inches apart. She was about 4 or 5 inches shorter than I was, so she had to look up at me to meet my eyes. As with everything else up to then, she had to take charge and hug me first. He body pressed against mine, her arms encircled my waist, her hands rested on my lower back. Imaginary marionette strings took hold of my hands and guided them along her sides, outside her arms, and made them cross at her shoulderblades. Well, we certainly were hugging. Idiot-mode led me to believe that I was supposed to say something, but brilliance wasn't going to be a part of it. It was extremely awkward for me, and I asked her with annoyance in my voice, "There, feel better now?"
It wasn't said in a caring or romantic fashion, it was more like wanyed to be rid of her. I tried to break the hug, but she didn't let me. She looked me straight in my eyes for a few long seconds, then deliberately moved her gaze to my lips, gently bit her lower lip, and slowly dragged her eyes back to my eyes, inhaled deeply, then tilted her head back even more as she dreamily closed her eyes halfway. All of that was my invitation.
Almost in the way a wrestler head-butts an opponent, I thrusted my face towards hers, smashing my lips against her lips for a millisecond before withdrawing, which I did in conjunction with breaking out of the hug. Anyone watching would have thought she had leprosy the way I got out of there. IdiotBoy didn't take time to notice her reaction, so it can't be memorialized here, but suffice it to say that she didn't give up in her Casanova; soon after that we were officially unofficially boyfriend and girlfriend. (Don't worry, gentle reader, things got much, much better between us in the kissing and romance department.)
