by Patti Mcquillen

Created on: March 04, 2009

I dreamed of my first kiss with the passion and vigor often seen in movies and soap operas. I could feel the warmth of arms circling my body. The scent of cologne would tickle my very being. I felt positive that the kiss would never leave the frontlines of my memory.

No, it never will; yet, for reasons unknown to me at the time. I was in middle school and dating my first "real" boyfriend. He was taller than me, and very handsome. His dark hair, quirky charm, and manners caused shivers to light my senses on fire as we held hands and laughed about matters I can no longer recall.

What I do remember is how he leaned me back to deepen the kiss, way back. Yes, I mean so far back that I wondered if my spine would snap like a twig on a windy day. The way his lips slid over mine, and part of my face too, will always be a memory. Was it supposed to feel like this, I wondered? Why did it seem so sloppy?

I laugh as I write this piece. I can still see us, two kids who thought they knew everything about the world, kissing after we exited the doors of our church. Yes, I said church, Roman Catholic to be more specific.

We were there as students in a religious education class selected by our parents. The hour was late, and darkness fell fast. I had a feeling he rushed us out the door before the others just so he could kiss me. I remember hearing the sounds of their footsteps and the giggles as they realized what we did.

The excitement carried to the leader as several of our classmates raced to share the details of what they considered a scandal, and a glorious piece of gossip. As his lips roamed, providing a hefty dose of saliva, my mind flitted with the idea of having to explain all this to my mother. Explaining it to my grandparents would be even worse; for, they were known to be strict, and always offered their time to help at the church.

After these sobering thoughts, I noticed the steps of the leader as they sounded in the distance, too close for comfort. I feared the Pastor's would be next, and maybe even a nun's. We kept going, and then, without warning, he stopped. A sudden emptiness filled the space now hanging between us. What happened, I thought as I found myself standing once again.

We looked at each other, realized what transpired, and backed away to spend the remaining minutes with friends, before our mothers came to take us home. Laughter sped through the air as whispered voices sounded louder than our regular volume levels. The other girls wanted to know what I felt, and how I rated him.

I looked back at him over my shoulder. I turned to them and refused to share my reaction. I can recall the looks of disappointment and envy. I also remember the way I felt about my status. I reached a milestone that night, even if the kisses from the professional stars looked neater and more real.

There was no turning back; no second chance for a better first kiss. I had my first one, and the clock of time clicked louder and faster after that night. I do not regret letting him kiss me, nor do I regret the way it failed to reach my level of anticipation. What I regret is how I never felt the courage to share the story with my own daughter. She is 13, and I hope it is not too late.

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