I remember my first kiss vividly. I was in my early teens and was at a local teen dance club with one of my best friends. Do they still have teen clubs? Probably not. I sure as hell won’t be allowing Foxy to attend such venues. All that gyrating and stuff. And that was back in the late eighties. I shudder to think of what today’s 8th and 9th graders are getting into. Straight up fe.lla.t.io.
Thankfully, or not so thankfully, my mom wasn’t nearly as strict as I plan to be. She let me run off to the teen club whenever my little friend could get her big sister to take us. Whenever we went I saw a guy named John. That’s pretty much all I can remember about John. His first name. Hey, it was 20 years ago, cut me some slack.
One evening John and I were bumping and grinding on the dance floor, in the awkward way that 14 year-olds do, when he leaned in and kissed me. Right there on the dance floor in front of everyone! And I am not talking about a peck on the lips, I’m talking full-on tongue down my throat. No shame!
I remember being so excited that I was finally kissing a boy. At the same time, I wasn’t prepared for how wet it was going to be. Ewwwww!
That was the last time I saw John and it was shortly after that that the club closed all together. It would be nearly two years before I would let a boy kiss me again. At that time I perfected my kissing game and have been killing them softly ever since.