I don’t know why I’m sharing this. I could lie and say it’s a (boring) work of fiction, but I’ll own it; it’s mine. I can’t promise not to delete it if I begin to feel too naked. This isn’t a chaste story. I guess I’m supposed to wish my first kiss had come later, accompanied by true love or a sign from God. But here’s the truth.
I remember my first kiss. Truth or dare or seven minutes in heaven or something like that. I was twelve. Lisa made me play. My mother’s bestie’s daughter. Cool. Bad. And had everyone fooled.
She warned me when the weekend began that she was going to tattle every little thing I did. I should have believed her.
She took me to an R rated movie, led me in speculating about the sex lives of the people across the street, started that kissing game, and I don’t remember what all.
When our visit was over, Lisa told her mother everything I did, leaving out her own involvement. Her mother called my mother and my mother had to have a very uncomfortable conversation with me. Strangely, she seemed mostly concerned with my use of the word “humping” which I don’t think I’d ever heard before that weekend and seems in retrospect a vulgar, stupid word.
Either my mom believed me when I said it was Lisa leading me into trouble and making things up, or else she was just relieved to have the conversation over quickly. How ever it was, we never spoke of it again, and I never saw Lisa again. I heard later that she turned out to be a diagnosed sociopath.
Oh! But that kiss! That kiss was exciting.
Lisa told me after that the boy said that it was OK that I “couldn’t kiss” because I was smart and nice. I’m sure she told me that just to hurt me. And it did. But not that much. I was more happy that a boy found me smart. And nice. I figured kissing could be mastered with practice.