A Kiss Is—NOT—Just a Kiss
Remember your first kiss? Was it dazzling? Swoon-worthy? Life-changing? For me: Nope, definitely not and not hardly. That is, if we’re being technical with the definition of first kiss. But then, a first kiss is a first kiss, no mistaking it, right? Hmmm—maybe, maybe not.
Technically, my first kiss came in the fall of eighth grade, at a dance in the school cafeteria at Wi-Hi junior high school in Salisbury, Maryland. Even in 1973, eighth grade was a little late for a 13-year-old girl’s first kiss. I was hoping to end that streak that night and frankly, any boy would do. It had to be a boy because I was having confusing feelings about girls, and I didn’t want anybody else to know that I’d rather kiss girls than boys. To me then, kissing a girl was, sadly, almost unthinkable.
So when a cute-ish boy I didn’t know all that well asked me to dance, I said OK. When the song ended—boom—braces-on-braces, full-on sloppy French kiss. It was surprising, unpleasant, and overall kinda weird. I didn’t feel a spark of any kind. At least our braces didn’t lock together, which had been a fear. I don’t remember what happened after that, but I know he and I didn’t kiss again that night. Or ever.
But was that really my first kiss? Yes, technically. However, many years before that, a different story was developing. Second grade was the year a new family moved in next door to us. One of their daughters, Cheryl, was a year older than me but we became fast friends.
We played records, Barbies, and house. Our games of house were epic, lasting hours sometimes. Cheryl and I were a married couple who lived in our cozy home located in our parents’ shared garage. Sometimes we had children, other times not. Not hard to guess who played the husband. It was a role that felt natural to me. I didn’t feel male inside, exactly, I just enjoyed the freedom inherent in the role and the ability to be in love with another girl. I knew even then that I would never marry a man or have children; that’s not what I wanted. But what I did want was unclear. I was, after all, only seven.
In the meantime, I could pretend to be a good husband, and that meant sometimes kissing my wife. When those times came, Cheryl and I would face each other, stand about two feet apart, hands at our sides, and move our heads from side to side simultaneously with our eyes closed, and “kiss” each other silly.
But we never actually locked lips. I think Cheryl was more interested in doing that with my older brother, unfortunately. But the point is, I don’t know if it counts or not. There were a lot of feels on my part involved in pretend kissing Cheryl even at the age of seven. Certainly more than were involved in kissing a boy at the age of 13.
I kissed numerous boys in high school and young men in college. Some were good kissers. But when I finally and properly kissed another young lesbian at 19, all became right in my world at last. Nothing up until then even came close. I had found my home. And I’ve been an out-of-the-closet (mostly) lesbian ever since. And there have been, fortunately, many memorable first kisses in my life.
Thinking about first kisses brings to mind several from significant relationships I’ve had over the years. Some were romantic (on a windswept beach!), some were way too urgent or ill-advised in the end. But all were passionate and wonderful. After all, what’s not to love about a first kiss? I’ll never forget the first time I kissed my wife. That one tops all first kisses, ever.
My hope for you is that on April 27—“Remember Your First Kiss Day”—the memory of your favorite first kiss brings back joyful and juicy memories. If it wasn’t technically your first kiss that brought it all home for you, count the one that felt like it did. That’s what I’m doing. ▼
Beth Shockley is a retired senior writer/editor living in Dover with her wife and furbabies.