I fall into a small category. Not only can I tell you about my very first kiss back then, but I can also compare it to present day. It's a classification I like to call "Spin the Bottle: Chapter 2".
I was in the sixth grade. My best friend, Annie, was able to convince her conservative, Catholic parents she should invite the boys from our class to the party. Up to this point, all her parties had been girl only, with the only exception of her father, brother, and one male cousin.
We were further astonished when Annie's parents agreed to host the party at night! Twelve year old boys and girls hanging out after dusk. She must have caught her mother after she had sucked down her nightly white zinfandel.
So there, fortified by the bravery only darkness can offer a group of twelve year olds, we played "spin the bottle and around the corner". Never heard of "around the corner"? We tagged that on our childish, sophomoric, little selves. We needed privacy to guard us from embarrassment and the heckling of our peers.
So there, among the stinky aluminum garbage cans in Annie's side yard, Jack quickly kissed me. I suppose it was a typical first kiss. Awkward, uncomfortable, and...and...hard. Yes, his lips were hard, not soft like my light blue, satin pillow case with the Shaun Cassidy iron-on I had so diligently and religiously practiced on for what was to be an idyllic moment in my young life. I felt deflated. The moment did not meet my expectations. I wasn't even sure if it was diary worthy.
Almost two decades later, I found my divorced self sitting on Jack's sofa. We had enjoyed an evening of laughter, reminiscing, and nostalgia. We were leaning our faces towards one another, with the inevitable about to happen...again!
This internal conversation raced through my head:
Will this be better than the last time?
Of course, it will! He was only 12. Boys don't practice kissing like girls do!
Does he still have wood lips?
For Pete's sake, woman! Give it a rest! Relax. Enjoy. He's had almost two decades of experience since the last time.
Oh, Dear God! Are you listening?
I don't like hard lips. I like soft, smushy lips. Loose lips. Lips that will meld with mine. That's what I want.
As we leaned into each other, closer and closer and closer, my insides are yelling, "Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please, oh, please! Soft lips, soft lips, soft lips!"
And finally, after almost exactly twenty years, our lips came in contact again. This kiss was longer. This kiss may have even burned a couple more calories than the first, but there remained one constant...
In his thirties, Jack still had wood lips.