I had my first kiss when I was 14. It was at a Catholic school dance in another town. I was invited by KG, a girl friend of mine, and I eagerly accepted. Boys! I was 14, boy-crazy, and as socially awkward as a person could be. So I dandied myself up, and went. And that’s where I met Angelo. Angelo was SMOKING HAWT, to a 14 year old, and we danced, and I giggled and was a total teenager and acted the fool. He smoked. I didn’t. So I, in a daze, followed him outside away from the chaperones, to watch him smoke. He was SO COOL. And then he was finished with his Newport and kissed me.
OMG. There is a boy. Kissing me. My life is complete.
We stood in the parking lot, kissing chastely, our 90’s outfits glaring against the moon. He told me he loved me, that I was perfect, that we were going to be together forever. I, being a complete fool, thought “YES!!!!” and started planning our wedding. I was an idiot. But then again, I was 14. Everyone’s an idiot at 14.
There was, as there always was in New Jersey in 1992, a Camaro in the parking lot. Suddenly my back was tilted over it and his tongue was in my mouth. WHOA NELLY. I played along, I didn’t feel scared, everything was fine. But I was a bit overwhelmed. He tasted of cigarettes. He seemed so much more mature than I was. What I didn’t realize at the time was that 14 year old boys are completely controlled by hormones, and 14 year old girls still read “Anne of Green Gables” after their bedtimes. At least in 1992.
He didn’t try anything nasty. He just kissed me. But I panicked. I didn’t know anything at that point about panic disorder or any of my other splendid mental disorders. So I started to freak. I kept kissing him. I liked it a LOT, but I was also wigging in the first sense of the word.
He had nice hair.
He asked me for my number. In the days before cell phones, I’d have to give him my parents’ number, and oh my lordo, then they’d know I kissed a boy. So I did the unthinkable.
I gave him a fake number.
I was such an asshole.
I’m so sorry, Angelo. I know from KG that you’re a perfectly fine 36 year old man with a family now, but there was a night in 1992 that you kissed me for the first time, and I pulled a DICK MOVE on you. I’m glad you’re happy. I’m sorry that my crazy brain was starting to be REALLY crazy, and I’m sorry if we dented that Camaro.
Ah, romance. Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.