A first kiss is a magical thing: There’s sparks! There’s
lightning! There’s glistening fountains and dancing fireflies!
At least, that’s what I hear.
I could tell a story
of when I was three or four. My family
would get our hair cut in the basement of a lady’s house. Her
mentally-challenged son tried to make out with me. Well, he was successful. I
was so upset; I pushed him down and spit repeatedly on his bed to get the
“icky” out of my mouth. Running into the next room, I cried my angry little eyes
out to my mom. She tried to explain that it wasn’t his fault. That was beyond
my comprehension. All I could do was seethe with unfathomable hatred toward the
boy who slimed me with his love. We never got our hair cut at that house again.
But that was when I was little and naive. Teenager-hood is
when I expected kissing to happen.
When I was seventeen, I was part of my High School’s
all-girl choir. There were about 14 of us. We were amazing, if I say so myself.
All of us had to be perfect on every note for it to sound good. It was one of
the most fun and fulfilling things I had ever participated in. We sang at many
places, including old folk’s homes.
At one such particular compound for the elderly, we had a lovely
performance around Christmas time. All of us girls went around and shook hands
with the oldies afterward. Even though they all reeked, we were happy to show appreciation
for their perseverance in staying alive.
I was separated from the other girls when I first saw him.
Wheel-chair bound, wrinkled beyond comprehension, he lifted
his shaking hand in the air. He was beckoning me to come over to him. Pity
overwhelmed me. Poor old thing! As I put out my hand to shake his, he pushed it
aside and motioned for me get closer. I
assumed he wanted to thank me for the performance with one of those soft,
quiet, old-person voices. To hear him better, I leaned down to his level.
With haste, for such a decrepit old man, he grabbed the back
of my head with both hands and pulled me toward his face. Seeing his puckered
lips, I knew what was going to happen. I had only just a moment to turn my head
slightly so it wasn’t a full-on spit fest. But he still got half of my mouth. I
could only think, “Old dude lips! Ew! Ew! EW EW EW!!!”
When he let go, I didn’t know how to react. I looked down at
him, reasonably horrified. Contorting his face into a more crinkly mass, he grinned
at me. Maybe he just thought I was pretty. Maybe he was senile. Maybe other old
people tasted bad. Whatever the reason, I knew I couldn’t be mean to a person
who would probably be dead the next day. I gave him a forced half smile, turned
around and walked back toward the other girls.
While I wiped putrefied spit from my steaming-red face, one
of the girls asked, “What’s wrong?”
“He kissed me.”
