Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Thirty Day Writing Challenge: Day 3, Your First Love and First Kiss

My first love, and my first kiss...

My first love was warm, soft, caring, gentle.  She watched over me, though my mother tried to stop us from sharing a bed.  She was older than me.  Wiser.  Kinder.  And infinitely patient.  It mattered not a wit that I was incredibly allergic to cats, that calico slept with me in my crib every night and every nap: me softly sneezing and coughing all over her, and her purring and cleaning the ever running font of mucus my nose presented in protest.

My first kiss...

My first kiss was when I was born and they placed me on my mother's stomach and she smiled and kissed me in delight.

My first kiss was when I was two and he was two and we were in his mother's lap and the grown ups told us to blow kisses, and laughed in delight when we did.

My first kiss was in fifth grade, when I was hanging up my jacket after recess and the boy I liked, tripped, and his face bumped into mine, and his lips ran painfully into mine, and I returned the surprise with an indignant slap.

My first kiss was my then best friend and we were both in eighth grade.  He asked me out and I said yes because we were already always hanging out.  But then we were sitting on the couch and he put his arm around me and kissed my cheek and WHOA! That was NOT what I'd signed up for! And we were no longer dating.

My first kiss was in tenth grade and he was in eleventh, and his lips were soft and warm and the peach fuzz on his lip tickled my nose, but then he tried to put his tongue in my mouth, and all I could think about was the way that earth worms mate:  all mucus out of holes in the ground and flailing against each other making a mess, and I hadn't signed up for -this- either! So we were no longer dating.

My first kiss was in spring in the south and we were in eleventh grade.  He was showing me a local sand bar and the sunlight was romantic through the green leaves of the trees. A gentle breeze whipped some of my hair about my face, and he gently caught it, taming it.  His hand warm on my cheek, barely touching, hesitant.  He looked into my eyes and leaned in, and briefly, I panicked:  Am I supposed to tilt my head?  What if we bump heads?  What if I have bad breath? What if -he- has bad breath? Maybe I'm supposed to hold my breath.  But then when do I breathe?!?  What if I pass out? What about spit?!? What if... And then his lips were softly on mine, hesitant, testing, respectful, questioning, warm, pleasant, new...And I forgot all about my silly questions.  And we didn't bump heads.  And I tilted a little to the right, but so did he.  And I didn't notice his breath, because all I could focus on were the two spots where we met: his hand, warm and gentle, cupping my face, and our lips.  And I can't remember if I breathed, but I didn't pass out. And I smiled, and opened my eyes shyly, and so did he.  Then he showed me the minnows and how they'll come to tickle your toes if you put your feet in the shallows.

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