It took me three months to kiss my boyfriend for the first time. It wasn't for his lack of trying, I can assure you. We'd go places and park, and he'd look so cute and earnest, all puckered up. But to no avail.
I've always been a person slow to show emotions.
So when I finally broke down, sitting on my parent's porch late one evening with him reclining next to me, it was a pretty big deal. I liked to touch his face. He'd close his eyes, and I'd trace them with my fingers. Eyebrows, cheeks, nose, forehead and back again.
Then it occurred to me. What am I doing? I love this kid, so why am I making him suffer? Kissing is just another way we show affection, right? While his eyes were still closed I leaned in slowly and gave him the lightest, most chaste kiss possible. His eyes flew open, he jumped to his feet and started running. Did I have bad breath? Chapped lips? Was I just the world's worst kisser?
And then I heard it. He was yelling. From somewhere on the next block, he was yelling. Not in disgust, but for joy!
That kiss was the first of thousands, the most memorable of which occurred on our wedding day two years later. He managed to reign in his excitement and not go whooping down the aisle, but just barely. I still remember the huge smile on his face. It was on mine, too.
My real first kiss story, (well, the first one that counts) humbly submitted for Scribbit's August Write-Away Contest.