It was the first time I was invited to one of the parties that my big brother was going to. I didn’t have any idea why he decided this time it was ok to take me because he never had said it was ok before and my mother didn’t care one way or the other. Probably she didn’t even know I went or that he went. You know just how exciting it is for this dumb eight year old to be invited to a party of thirteen year olds. I mean I was really ready, or so I thought. It started out kind of boring as I recall. I knew a couple of the people, mostly from a far, because they were in a different school than me. When I was in kindergarten they had been in fourth grade. Our school only went up to fifth grade so the overlap was minimal. Anyhow back to the party. I don’t even know if I had much fun at all and wondered what am I doing getting all interested in these boring parties. Finally the game of spin the bottle became the activity and I was included and I sat there and was a part of this thing with a mixture of thrill, dread and disgust when somehow the bottle that was spun by my brother’s yuckiest friend pointed to me. My brother later told me that was why I had been invited, no other girl ever followed through on their obligation to this guy when the bottle turned their way.

My first kiss didn’t happen quite as long ago as Jeanne’s (mine was 34 years ago), but it was just as poignant….. as least for me. I was barely 12 years old when I met him. We were riding home from Hebrew school on the mini bus and I forget the exact details… but suddenly there was just something there between us. The tedious, darkening hours after public school spent learning prayers and traditions were the foreplay to those titilating rides home, even before I knew what “foreplay” and “titilating” meant. I remember he rode to my house on his bike and I followed him to his house to meet his rabbit and his guitar. He showed up later that week to hand-deliver an invitation to his Bar Mitzvah– at which he basically ignored me while he hopelessly pursued someone cuter and blonder. But the chemistry between us kept us connected. We spent hours on the phone, imagining what it would be like to be “together…” despite the fact that he hadn’t yet kissed me. That would not happen for almost 2 years. My parents were away, and I had been left in the care of a grandmother who, at times, could be too savvy for her own good. He came to my house and we promptly disappeared into my basement (under Mom-mom’s disapproving eyes), where the only place to sit was a green booth seat left over from the days when my dad’s pharmacy had a soda fountain. He was a man on a mission– we sat right down on the booth. With barely a soft word spoken or a tender touch of hands, he leaned in, I closed my eyes, and he kissed me gently– oh! so gently– right on my lips. I barely had reopened my eyes when he stood up and announced, “I didn’t hear any bells or see any fireworks.” He walked up the basement steps and out the door… while I was still savoring the amazement of how soft a boy’s lips felt on my own. We eventually moved beyond that trauma and were friends for years. The memory of that first astounding, hesitant interlude is still with me– I even wrote a story about the two of us meeting in the afterlife that was produced as a play at our daughter’s high school. My husband’s first kiss was my second first kiss and had the stuff marriages of 25 years are built upon. But there’s just something about a girl’s face-to-face initiation into romance.

Do you remember your first kiss?