First Kiss

I am eight years old and I am sitting for my younger cousins who live on the same street.  I am swinging in the backyard when the thought pops in my head of my grade-school crush Joey coming by to visit me. He has adorable blond spiky hair and has been known to smoke frequently behind the baseball diamond at school during recess. This is a silly premonition to have.  Despite the odds I reposition my charges to my front lawn.

Minutes later they arrive. 

Two weeks later Joey is my first kiss. 

We move our tongues around inside one another’s mouths like we have seen on TV hidden in his spot behind the home plate wall.  He holds my hand at recess near the monkey bars, writes me love letters, and lets me borrow his jacket.  We “break-up” thanks to my Mom who calls his Mom and complains about the cigarette smell on Joey’s clothing I bring home.  He moves on to kissing my friend Kim, who’s Mom bakes him cookies.

I then kiss Andy on the monkey bars.  He doesn’t write me love letters or let me borrow any of his things.  He ends up dumping me for a sixth grader who supposedly felt his balls during the springtime assembly.  I repent feverishly for years to Jesus for my early encounter with devil tongue-kissing. 

I don’t again kiss a boy until my freshman year in high school.  We ditch drama class and make-out in a laundry room.  Throughout High School and College, my nickname is ‘Kissy Missy’, but I am good at keeping all action above the neck.  Despite a handful of adult flirtations of being a smoker, that never ends up sticking too. 

To this day, the taste and smell of cigarettes still brings me back to that first kiss.