I don't actually remember my first kiss. And believe me, it's not because there was such a variety of them in my teen years that it just got lost in the shuffle. The first one I do remember, however, is forever burned in my brain. I was fifteen years old and a cute boy (cute being relative to my age and the decade) had asked me to go to the fireworks with him.
Sounds romantic, doesn't it? Yeah, throw that idea out. Imagine you and ten thousand of your closest friends packed onto a beach to listen to a deafening soundtrack of rock ballads while watching the light show overhead. Now make at least half of those people drunk. But silly, innocent girl that I was, I thought this was going to be highly romantic - a night of cuddling with perhaps one perfect kiss as the final firework burst overhead and in that moment of silent awe, I would feel, nay hear our two hearts beat as one.
We got there about three hours early to secure a spot. The boy had not brought any kind of blanket, so this was three hours of sitting in sand, while families and yahoos settled in around us. It gave us a chance to talk, probably about such scintillating topics as which of our friends was screwing around on whom.
I remember having overlooked the fact that he didn't read because he was cute. (Never again.) A pleasant sexual tension built between us and by the time the sun set and the show started, I was all ready for the hand holding to begin.
Right. Skip the hand holding and take a moment to fully absorb the photo above. As the crowd around us roared and the first flare lit up the sky, I felt myself pushed back onto the sand and these giant lips come towards me. Tongue may have been hanging out. And while I can't remember that part exactly thanks to some very excellent trauma repression, I clearly remember thinking, "this is going to be gross." Which then warred with the thought, "but I am about to be kissed."
The kissing won out. Because I was 15 and stupid. It was a curiously detached experience, with me trying to figure out if his lips were growing and what the polite amount of time was that I could allow this before I shoved him off me and grabbed a desperately wanted tissue to wipe off my face.
|Get Real by Tellulah Darling|
That was the length of the fireworks show (of which I saw nothing) and the amount of time he kissed me with those massive, fleshy, wet lips. I take responsibility for not shutting down the action sooner, but my mother had raised me to be polite and I wasn't sure what the polite way to express "EW THIS IS SO DISGUSTING!" was.
Which leads me good people, to why I write YA & NA romantic comedy. Because while I can appreciate the humor of awkward passion, I'm determined to write chicks who will say, "Nope. This isn't working for me." Who will make their boys smarten up and figure out how to treat a girl, even if they have to teach the guy themselves.
And I figure if I write enough great kisses, I'll end up believing that one of them was mine.