Someone asked me about my First Kiss the other day, and if I remembered it. Of course I remember it. I also remember thinking about animal crackers…
There we were: on the parents’ couch, darkened room, watching a movie. I don’t remember what one, I was thinking about animal crackers. He was holding my hand. Then he leaned over and… I coughed.
Yes, I coughed. Loudly. A hack almost.
Was my throat overexcited? Did I inhale wrong, causing my lungs to fallop about like twin belugas?
Not sure. But, both to his credit and my sudden anxiety, my gusty exhalation of air and probably spit did not deter him.
I still remember it vividly: his lips, which I had the sudden and inexplicably crazy thought that they looked like moist slivers of liver hovering before his face, eyes almost shut in a dreamy silence as he leaned in and I tried hard not to lean away.
And then there it was: wet. So very wet. But gentle, kind of like a Saint Bernard. Tongue. TONGUE! Okay… okay… I’ll just.. Holy crap this is a LOT of SPIT! I pulled away, panic pinging around my brain. Was there supposed to be that much spit? Was it me? I swallowed hastily (let it never be said that I am a spitter, for I am not).
But he came after me. “It’s okay,” he said, as if he were talking to an exceptionally frightened fawn, “Just let go.”
He didn’t see the weird look I gave him because he was coming after me with his lips again and there they were, bigger and plumper, more moist, somehow, then they had just been. Okay, girl, I told myself, Get it together. You don’t want it getting around school about how you freaked the hell out and dove through a two-story window. The other side of my brain rationalized, If only they knew about the… sheer quantity of fluid!
He attacked my face with force, as if he sensed my inner alarm and sought to override it with his tide of masculinity and stun me with his eau de Brut. His lips kind of mashed mine and I, in a frozen state of oh-my-god-what-do-I-do just tried to mimic what he was doing, less fluid. I mean, it was kind-of enjoyable. I guess. If you enjoy being gently mauled by a bathroom plunger.
I am unkind.
It went on for an eternity. I did my best to reciprocate because I didn’t want to hurt the chap’s feelings, and it was semi-pleasant at the time. But when he leaned away (for air, I presume, or perhaps he’d tired of trying to find my tonsils), I ducked my head down and dabbed at my lips frantically with the edge of my shirt.
“I’m going to the restroom,” he said, getting to his feet with a smile I supposed he meant to be sexy, and a flip of his hair. “Do you need anything?”
“Can you grab me some animal crackers?” I asked.
Let it never be said I am a girl who forgets her purpose.