Photo by edikenkoyon on Flickr.
The first boy I ever loved was named Bobby. I tried to keep it a secret, but I guess my adoration was obvious. His last name was Crudo and on the playground, I plugged my ears to taunts of “Judo Crudo,” but I was only pretending to be bothered. In first grade, I was a gangly, freckled, bookwormy redhead; I’d been called much worse. My name up until then had been rhymed most often with cootie and booty, so being rhymed with the object of my desire was a big improvement. I don’t know what he thought. We didn’t talk about it. I can’t actually remember talking to him at all. About anything. I loved him from afar, across a crowded classroom. Bobby taught me how to pine more than how to love, and I pined for him masterfully, heroically, all the way to sixth grade, when I fell for Scott.
Scott was like the anti-Bobby. I didn’t like him at first. He was loud and had a lot of opinions for a sixth grader. He was almost always the center of attention and almost always in trouble. Then one day behind the library after school, he dared his best friend, David, to kiss me, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. On the one hand, I was intensely curious about the kissing thing; on the other, I’d never been curious at all about David, who was sweet and pudgy and utterly unassuming. And although his friends had told my friends that he liked liked me, just then, behind the library, he looked more mortified than impassioned. If he could’ve melted into the ground and disappeared forever, I think he would have.
I felt so sorry for him I stepped in between the two of them and let Scott have it. I told him David didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to. I told him I didn’t know why David was even his friend the way Scott treated him. I told him I thought he was mean and immature and that’s when Scott kissed me. On the mouth. With tongue.
It was like being plugged into an electrical socket, every nerve inside me raw and open and clamoring for more.
“That’s called French kissing,” he said afterward, studying me as if I were the subject of an experiment he’d just conducted. “The tongues,” he said. “That’s what makes it French.”
“Wanna do it again?” he asked me.
I nodded. We did it again. We did it again for quite a while in fact, until my limbs felt rubbery and my breath felt unreliable, and my insides were all jumbled and racing and alive, and I knew nothing would ever be the same again.
When, trembling, I said I had to go home and do my homework, Scott said, “okay,” and we separated, both in a daze, both of us trying to get our bearings, both of us suddenly remembering David, who was nowhere to be found.
Got a first kiss story? I’d love to hear it. (And yeah, I know. David. I feel bad about that. I do.)