Do you remember the first boy/girl you kissed?

[aint_no_life_nowhere]

78. I’m not sure as to what qualifies as a real kiss

Last edited Wed Apr 24, 2013, 04:42 PM - Edit history (1)

I was 5 years old when I kissed a girl who wasn’t a family member, but it was not a voluntary kiss. I was playing tag in the front yard with neighborhood kids my age and I was “it”. I couldn’t run fast enough to catch anyone and got frustrated so I picked up a heavy metal lawn hose nozzle and threw it up in the air at the taunting kids. Unfortunately it hit a little girl my age right on the nose, causing it to bleed. She ran home crying. My dad came outside to see about the noise and then gave me the worst spanking of my life. I told him I didn’t mean to target her but he said I should have known better. He yelled at me and told me that what I did could scar the little girl emotionally towards boys. My dad simply didn’t tolerate any disrespect by me towards any member of the opposite sex, especially that of a physical nature. He found out where she lived and drove me to her house. He made me go up to her room and apologize to her face. After all these years (this was in the mid 1950s) I still remember the skinny blonde girl in her bedroom leaning against the wall with a handkerchief up to her nose, her eyes red from crying. My dad then ordered me to kiss her on the cheek. I was very embarrassed but excited at the same time because she was only wearing a pair of panties. I never did anything physically harmful like that again to a girl or woman.

The next time was a year later (I was 6) when my dad was transferred to the U.S. Air Force base at Bitburg, Germany. A girl who lived upstairs in our four story military housing complex had weimaraner dogs like mine. We became friends while walking our dogs in the German farmers’ fields and forests on the edge of the base. I almost stopped playing with boys and was kidded for having a girlfriend but I didn’t care. We were inseparable and I know I found her pretty and I really, really liked her. When she moved away we shared a long hug and she gave me some wet kisses on the cheek. I was heartbroken for days. Her name was Caroline.

The next time was when I was 12. My summer friend Larry invited me over to his small house where he lived with his mom, dad, younger brother, and older sister named Sondra who was 14. When I first saw Sondra she had puffed out blonde hair like the style in the early 60s. She wore white socks and she had her feet propped up on the front porch railing, rocking back and forth on the back legs of a chair as she listened to a transistor radio. I must have startled her when I sat down on the porch steps because as she turned to see me she spilled a glass of red kool-aid on her white shirt. She looked at me with disgust and went inside. She then came back outside with a clean shirt and made some comments about going to the radio station’s sponsored sock hop. I was desperate to learn how to dance to meet girls so I gathered the nerve to ask her if she would teach me how to dance. I offered her $10 for a few lessons. They were a poor family (the father was a night watchman and the mom didn’t work) so she agreed to come over to my house because she probably needed the money. Upstairs in our old Victorian house in my bedroom with the stereo she came and taught every dance of the day that you might see on American Bandstand; the Watusi, the Mashed Potato, the Pony, the Twist, the Hully Gully. We met about five or six times that summer and each time she stayed a little longer, earning that $10 several times over and causing my mom downstairs to start asking questions, such as whether it was really about my friend's older sister teaching me how to dance. To my amazement, behind closed doors this unsmiling, hard–edged teenage girl became the sweetest, most talkative, most smiling and laughing creature I could ever have imagined. She then finally taught me how to slow dance and she kidded me for having no idea how to hold a girl and then asked me if I’d ever even kissed a girl. I could only stare back in embarrassment, when she stopped dancing and suddenly kissed me as the music of the Everly Brothers, one of her favorite records that she’d brought, “Let It Be Me” kept playing in the background. It wasn’t the most passionate kiss I’ve ever had since, nor was it just a friendly ‘good-night’ kiss at the end of the prom; in those twenty seconds or so her mouth was wet and her lips moved over mine. And it was my very first mouth-on-mouth kiss. After that summer, Larry and I stopped being friends in Junior High and I never saw her again.

But that fall in Junior High I sat behind a blonde long-haired girl (I don’t know why all the blondes as I consciously have always preferred brunettes) named Priscilla in Mrs. Cameron’s English class. I have always been shy but in Priscilla’s case she was so cute I came out of my shell in a big way. Our English teacher made us trade papers for spelling tests and I intentionally made the worst possible hilarious spelling mistakes to get her attention. I called her “Miss Priscilla” telling her that she reminded me of an aristocratic English girl with a Governess who went around calling her “Miss Priscilla” “Miss Priscilla” in an English accent. I started accompanying her to lunch then walking her home and then I invited her downtown by bus to go see a movie on Saturday morning. She told me her parents would have killed her if they’d known because her mother said that boys were “of the devil”. She picked the movie and we sat in the balcony in the back. In the dark, I played with her hair and then kissed her, my first real kiss in my opinion. We ended up making out throughout West Side Story and I had to see it years later on TV to see what it was all about. Priscilla was the cutest, kindest, sweetest, most intelligent, coolest, and most drama-free girlfriend I ever had in my life and I still miss her. Unfortunately, my dad was a career Air Force officer and moving away and leaving people behind was a constant reality of life.