First time

I was going to lose it that night. He was the one, and I was ready.

After a month of dating ­– or the equivalent of 14 years in middle school time ­– I was going to let him put it in.

Thirteen years was long enough to have only tasted and felt the texture of my own tongue. It was time to lose my French kiss virginity.

After an hour of his sweaty palm dragging my sweaty palm along the track surrounding that Friday night’s Pinto football game, someone in our group made the nonchalant suggestion we’d all been craving.

“Let’s go sit on the hill.”

We probably ran up that hill – dubbed makeout hill – removed from the stadium lights so dirty deeds could be done under the watchful eye and snickers of only our classmates.

And there we sat for the last two quarters, feigning watching the game, our eyes never really making it past the coed feet sprawled in front of us.

I was in a mirrored house with him, calculating his every move as a sign that he wanted to kiss me. Or that he didn’t.

A twitch in his leg was intentional. An itch was an excuse for him to get closer to me.  Or was it?

Overtime wouldn’t offer reprieve from missed opportunities that night. The game was over, and he hadn’t made a move, as far as my assessment could tell.

He was shy, I resolved in those last fleeting minutes.  We hadn’t spoken more than a few words all night, but his tongue was ready to make moves. I was sure. At least I hoped.

While my friends hurried me along, I turned to say goodbye. Fighting the fear, I kept my head straight for the hug, resisting the urge to lean to the right and go home dissatisfied.

With my eyes open, carefully aimed, our lips touched. His tongue slipped into my mouth, and he poked it around a couple times.

It was skinny and warm and wet and tasted like Big Red.

After a few seconds, I backed off from the embrace, said nothing, turned and levitated down the hill.

My aunt Donna picked me up that night. I was quiet in the car, replaying the sensation and wondering if she could somehow tell what I’d just done. I didn’t want to tell her, but I hoped she knew.

My aunt tucked me into the bottom bunk of my cousin’s bed that evening. I didn’t sleep much but woke up early. My first thought was, “I French kissed a boy.”

I can’t remember if we ever kissed again. Maybe we did at a dance, when the teachers’ heads were turned. Maybe we did at the next home football game.

A year later, I remember another boy suddenly sticking his tongue in my mouth, and I had a friend break up with him for me the next day.

The subsequent kisses were never as shattering. I can’t recall with nearly as much detail the taste of even the first kisses with the men I would go on to love.

Experience suffocates experience.  Memory always taints the future.

But ain’t memories sweet?

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