A momentous life event took place in the fall of my freshman year of high school: my first kiss.
Our story begins the night of the homecoming dance. My date was the boy in the picture below. He was not my future first kiss.
(C’mon. You know I never pass up the opportunity to share a throwback photo.)
At the dance, my date and I basically only interacted when he came over to dance with me during a slow song. The rest of the time I was taking pictures on my disposable camera, “dancing” (i.e. jumping up and down and singing), and hugging my friends.
Afterwards a big group of us went bowling. A boy named Kirk was there. Kirk was cute. He had curly hair in that shag haircut that was all the rage in the early 2000’s, and he was a sophomore, which made him a year older than me. (An older boy!)
Kirk had not been my date to the dance, but he’d been giving me a lot of attention– dancing with me, tickling me, telling me I was cute, etc. I liked it. My date did not, but he was too nice to say anything/ I said no when
he asked me to be his girlfriend he had my friend ask me if I wanted to be his girlfriend.*
Before we went home (le sigh, 11:00 curfew), Kirk asked for my phone number. We talked over the weekend, and by the time Monday afternoon rolled around, he was my boyfriend.
I’d had “boyfriends” prior to Kirk, but I hadn’t kissed any of them– except one on the cheek in 6th grade. (It was a dare.)
About a week into our fledgling relationship– which, at this point, had consisted of talking on the phone every night, writing notes to each other, and walking me to class– we were hanging out at the final football game of the season.
All my friends were there, too, and knew Kirk and I hadn’t kissed yet. (I’m pretty sure this was the first time Kirk and I had hung out outside of school.) Kirk had to leave the game early, so I walked with him to the exit. My stomach was doing flip-flops. I had a feeling I was about to have my first real kiss.
And, so did my friends, who followed us to the exit and were lurking where I could see them over Kirk’s shoulder. They were making kissey faces and lolling their tongues about in the air. I tried to wave them away.
“So…” Kirk started. I was jittery with anticipation; my legs were shaking, my arms felt both light and heavy at the same time, and my stomach was full of butterflies. My friends’ faces in my peripheral vision were not helping.
Not sure what to do, I couldn’t bring myself to look at Kirk, so I looked down at my feet instead.
And then Kirk continued to say, “Why don’t we French kiss, so your friends can see it and get it over with.”**
I jerked my head up.
GET IT OVER WITH?!
FRENCH KISS?! WHO CALLS IT THAT?! GROSS!!!!
Despite these thoughts racing through my brain, I replied, “Ok.”
He leaned in to kiss me, and…
His tongue just sat in my mouth.
I waited a couple seconds, frozen in place with my eyes squeezed shut. I was following his lead, hoping he would do something.
He didn’t. His tongue sat in my mouth like a limp whale. I used my own tongue to push his out of my mouth and stepped back, both disgusted and confused. I hand’t done much kissing in the past, but I thought it was supposed to be fun.
He smiled at me, and leaned in for a quick peck on the lips. Still a little shocked, I obliged. Then he left.
My friends had (thankfully) gone back to our spot in the bleachers, so I slowly walked up to join them.
They started whooping and clapping as I approached. I plopped down next to my friend Katy, who was leaning back between one of the boys’ legs (the only way to spectate at high school football games/ make adults uncomfortable).
“How was it?!” Katy asked, her eyes wide with excitement.
“Weird?” She sat up onto the bench.
“It just… sat there,” I told her.
“What did?” Katy was not understanding me.
Katy paused, eyebrows furrowed. “No, Becca. That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”
I was both relieved and distressed by this. My friends and I discussed and analyzed every minuscule detail of my kiss with Kirk– the flopped tongue, calling it French kissing, saying we should “get it over with,” and the additional fact that some of my friends thought he was ~weird~.
For the rest of the weekend, I avoided Kirk’s calls, and Sunday I wrote in my diary, “I’ve only been going out with Kirk for 2 weeks, but tomorrow I’m breaking up with him. I don’t like him anymore. And he’s a BAD kisser! My first kiss sucked!”
Indignant about my gross first kiss, I broke up with Kirk when I found him waiting for me at my locker Monday morning. He was not pleased. I, on the other hand, felt like a new woman, more knowledgeable about kissing and breaking up with boys than I’d ever been before. I sped off to first period to share my newfound wisdom with my friends.
Poor Kirk. I hope he got better at kissing, for his wife’s sake. (Yes, I just went and looked him up on Facebook. Don’t judge me.)
Lucky for me, my next kiss was much better– plenty of movement. Although, I think there might have been a bit of teeth crashing on that one.
Ahh, the teenage years.
*I did like him when he asked me to go to the dance, I swear, but then Kirk paid way more attention to me, which made me like him more. Fourteen year-old girls are fickle, man.
**I swear to God that line is verbatim. I wrote it in my diary.
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Any other first kiss horror stories out there?! I’d love to hear them!