Writing: A Conversation Without Interruptions

Write about your first kiss. Was it everything you wished or hoped it would be?

Well typical. My first post of this challenge and it would be a hard one too! Right, okay. Well I do actually remember this well enough (lord help me when my mother sees this :p).

I assume, dear reader, that it would be far more interesting to hear about my first proper kiss. Not something from a friend, or a family member… you’re talking about a good, strong, full on snog with tongues and, if you’re lucky, groping, right? Well… I didn’t get any of that. Well I got some of that, but it wasn’t what I expected/wanted or even felt I could tell anybody about afterwards. I’m pleased to say, however, that I’ve many far more pleasant kisses since then, so its been all up hill since that day.

I was 17 (possibly 16 actually, it was long enough ago that the ages are starting to meld together. Is that bad?). I was the sort of girl who was shy and introvert and generally considered ‘that weird one who hangs out with insert-name-of-generic-cool-kid-here. I was lucky enough to have a cluster of close friends nearby who did like me and enjoy my company (and the fact that I made them look good by proxy of my not-goodness). I’d never had a boyfriend at this point – though I desperately wanted one – and the idea of sex made my toes tingle in a way I didn’t really understand. I knew how it worked, I’d experimented, but actual sex with an actual boy was way off the radar for me.

There was a boy- ha, I say ‘boy’ but that’s not true. This was a man. He was mid twenties if he was anything at all. A tall, black, African man with a cheeky grin and a kind voice. I wish I could remember his name, but, unfortunately, that is one thing I really can’t bring to mind right now. Never mind; let’s call him ‘Socrates’ (I don’t know why, just roll with me, okay!).

I’d met him on the bus, with his friend, on the way home from sixth form at the beginning of that school year. Somehow we got to talking. I really don’t understand how it happened since, despite wanting the status and comfort of having a boyfriend (all my friends did!), I didn’t really know how to talk to boys. They were odd and rude and smelt slightly funky and had this really irritating habit of speaking to my boobs instead of my face. The ones that did speak to my face had high, squeaky voices, hair longer than mine and fashion sense to rival The Cat from Red Dwarf. Anyway, we got to talking and I used to see him really often on the buses and one day, just after Halloween he invited me back to his house.

Now, I remember saying yes. Not the smartest of moves, I have to admit, but I said yes, because actually, at this point, I totally fancied his mate! This man was younger (probably early twenties) with slightly fairer skin (he was a mixed race chap) who always wore a baseball cap. I can’t remember his name either, but, in sticking to the theme, I’m going to call him ‘Plato.’ Now I liked Plato because he knew some pretty good jokes and did a good job of at least sharing his gaze between my boobs and my face, which was better than most people managed. So, I knew that if I went to Socrates’ house I might get to see Plato and get to talking with him. So I rode the bus passed my stop that day and further up the road towards where he lived.

Part of the way there however, I think something in my mind clicked into place and gave me one of those little mental slaps that says ‘Oi! This probably isn’t a clever thing to do. You don’t know exactly where he lives, you haven’t told Mum or Dad where you’re going and how much do you really know about him anyway?’ So… I chickened out! I told Socrates that actually I had to be at home and I’d forgotten that I was needed to help out in the house. He was disappointed (and slightly irritated), I could tell that at once, but he agreed that it was fine and offered to walk me home. By that point I was far too flustered to even think straight about whether or not I wanted him to know where I lived so I said yes.

Back we went. We made it as far as top of the road which bisects that of my mum’s house and then, wonder of wonders, Plato shows up. I must have been grinning like a loon (and looking like it too; trying to keep a hold of my rucksack filled with sixth form peripherals while acting like a big grown up).

Socrates looks at me and seems to realise that he’s loosing. His expression just then – and I remember this really well too – was one of quiet frustration and a bold, arrogant sort of shock. It was definitely a ‘What, you can’t want him over me’ sort of look. So he asks Plato if he would give us a moment alone. I still can’t believe Plato said yes. Moron. -_-

So, Plato wanders off, leaving me behind with Socrates who’s looking at me like he wants to bore a hole through my head with his eyes. Then he sort of leans down towards me and shoves his mouth at my face.

Now… bear in mind at this point of my life I had probably only just stopped reading romance novels (ick) and things like Sweet Valley High and Point Horror (sigh). I’d weened myself off Mills & Boon (thank god) and discovered the likes of Stephen King and Anne Rice. But the point is that I’d read enough in my life before that to understand what was happening. Only just. So, after initially flinching back and panicking, I just kinda stood there with my head tilted slightly back.

He hit my teeth first. Owie. He did have very full, very moist lips though and once I relaxed a tiny bit he eased off a smidge which let me peel my lips off my teeth. Then he put his hands on my shoulders and held me very steady while he opened my mouth with his tongue. It was the weirdest thing in the world. The books helped me understand what was going on, but none of them let me know what the hell to do about it! So I opened my mouth a bit… and then he was in there…! I got a gob full of slightly smoky saliva with a hint of what I hope to god was tuna, and a rough scratch of two-day stubble against my cheek.

It was dark and we were standing under a lamppost in a pool of sickly yellow light just outside the chemist near a zebra crossing. Cars were racing by through the darkness and the air was heavy with the rain that had been threatening all day. We were lucky not to get soaked sooner. As Socrates pulled back the first drops of rain began to fall and I remember feeling bizarrely pleased, since it might help to wash my mouth out.

It was an incredibly awkward moment. I kinda stood there, looking at my shoes and Socrates was looking at me and waiting for me to say something. But I couldn’t say anything. Then he touched my shoulder and said ‘Which of us do you want?’

So I’d been right. He bloody did know that I was after Plato and that kiss was supposed to help me make my mind up! Pity really, since all it did was make me want a cup of tea and a toothbrush. o.O

Then, as if its not bad enough, Plato comes back, complaining that its raining and that they need to go. Socrates is still waiting for my answer. I end up just shaking my head and pointing at Plato at which point Socrates turns to him, whispers in his ear and then walks off. He didn’t even put up a fight!

Plato just stares at me, utterly blankly and then says he needs to go because he’s getting wet. Within seconds he’s gone too and I’m left standing in the rain, touching my lips where another bloke’s tongue has been for the first time ever. I spent the rest of the way home trying to decide whether I should laugh at finally having done it, or cry at how ridiculous the whole thing was. I went with neither, instead just running up the street and letting myself in to the house where the sharp cry of my mother greets me with; ‘where have you been then?!’

D’ya know what…? I didn’t tell her.

My 80 Post Challenge is brought to you with help from Tom Slatin’s 80 Journal Writing Prompts.