On My First Kiss

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.


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