The Joy (or not so much) of the First Kiss (Mom—you might not want to read this one)

Now, I am by no means an “easy” girl. I do not believe in one-night stands. Nor do I believe in giving my body away to someone who hasn’t earned it. I guess you might say that in some ways, I’m a prude. Having prefaced this and advocated for my pride, I must now admit to you that I have kissed a shameful number of men…many of them whose names I cannot remember, and I wouldn’t be able to pick some of their faces out of the crowd even if I were offered a million dollars to do so—I guess I’m in trouble if I’m ever the victim of a crime where I have to identify the crook in a police-arranged line-up. Let’s just say the number is easily somewhere between thirty and three hundred. Oh, Gin and Tonic, how you loosen my tongue and demolish my guard.

I think I told you that I’m a late bloomer when it comes to having a love life. I actually didn’t even have my first kiss until my senior year in COLLEGE. Yes, you read that right—COLLEGE. Those games of spin-the-bottle that dotted the parties I attended in middle and high school made me so nervous I wanted to puke. Rather than play, for fear of being found out that I had no idea what a kiss entailed and certainly NO idea what to do when the word French was placed before it—Eek—I would feign disinterest and opt to busy myself cleaning up the kitchen (Yes, even in middle school).

My first kiss arrived with a trampling of nerves. How embarrassing for my secret to be revealed.

We stood in the hallway of the house I shared with roommates.

It was dark.

I knew it was coming.

He leaned in.

I held my breath.

And he kissed me.

And it was strange.

And awkward.

And there’s just so much to a kiss.

And there’s just so much of a person’s personality saturated in this act. This lovely, kernel of intimacy.

My first kiss came from a man who was over-the-top. People loved this guy. I loved this guy. His smile came easier than any person I’ve ever known—even to this day, I think of his smile and can’t help but feel a little lighter in the heart. He filled a room. His laughter. His jokes. His warmth. And he kissed this way. Almost selfishly. Almost as if he deserved all of me. He kissed so hard that the little string of flesh that attaches your tongue to the bottom of your mouth was ripped from its base. No joke. But what did I know? He was my first. I thought that’s just the way it was supposed to be.

I, like many of you thirty-somethings, spent many a childhood day watching The Brady Bunch. I remember an episode where Marcia shares a clandestine smooch with a boy from school, and she sees fireworks. The screen fills with them. And later in the show, Mrs. Brady kisses Mr. Brady and she sees fireworks. And so that’s what I expected. You know, the melting in the knees, the fluttering in the belly, the Disney music fading in, maybe a couple of birds singing.

I’ve only had two of these: my first kiss with Recurring Nacho man and my first kiss with The Cantaloupe Man.

There’s irony here, of course.

I guess a blog is a place for honesty, so here goes. As if Recurring Nacho man weren’t bad enough already, here’s more ammunition for you: Recurring Nacho man never kissed me during our second go-around. Not once. Well, I take that back—he did kiss me the day he moved. He claimed he didn’t like it. Now, there’s an insight into this man’s comfort-level with intimacy. I’m not sure why I put up with it, I really don’t. But I did. Mystery. Once again, thank the Lord that that door is closed.

And The Cantaloupe Man, well, I’m sure that when the 80’s are once again out of style (oh, dear Lord, please fast forward to that time), The Cantaloupe Man will no longer have the confidence to perform.

Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about this. And I’ve been asking friends. And, man, are the opinions divided. Here’s the question: If mediocre fills in the spot where the Firework Feeling should be, does that doom a relationship into the realm of never-meant-to-be? Or is the Firework Feeling just some elusive mistress that can never truly be tied down to commitment?

What I’ve realized recently is that it makes perfect sense for the first few kisses to be just a little off-kilter, just a little elbows-akimbo. After all, if kissing is an expression of personality, an expression of intimacy, isn’t it understandable that as the awkward dance of getting-to-know-you jilts along into a smooth tango, that kissing should do the same?

Up until now, I’ve straddled the fence on this issue. Well, let me be honest, I actually haven’t straddled the fence, I’ve been on the Instant Firework side, along with all of the teenage girls and adult women who live in Romantic Comedy Land. But, the stilts of maturity and experience have been strapped to my feet by the hands of Time. And I’ve used them to clamber over the fence and land solidly on the ground of Fireworks Can Grow. And, do you know what? They can. I’ve felt it. And they’re just as good. Even better, actually, because isn’t it the man attached to that kiss that really matters?

Recurring Nacho Man and Cantaloupe Man, in the words of Flo from the 80’s TV show, Mel’s Diner, “Kiss my grits!”