When I was fifteen, I had my first “real” kiss.
I was “dating” a boy who was a friend of a friend. If dating is the term one would use for sometimes hanging out with a boy when you both happened to be in the vicinity of each other when you both happened to be in the same town – sort of like a group date, every time we hung out.
We looked just like this when we all hung out. Except that we didn’t.
The boy and I held hands a few times.
It was super romantic, exactly like this.
I remember he gave me a piggy back ride once.
Seriously, how awkward is it when adults give each other piggy back rides?**
[** Okay, so I was not an adult yet, but at fifteen I pretty much stopped getting taller.]
And we kissed once.
How adorable is it when two people have their first kiss?
Not at all adorable, when your first kiss felt like a Brillo pad attacked your face directly due to the boy’s attempt-at-growing-a-moustache rubbing all over your lips.
And so, we only had the one kiss. Since you cannot re-do the first’s you have in life, this is unfortunately the memory I am left with of my first kiss.