next first kiss

In 1975-ish, in the unheated, quasi-renovated but not quite revitalized Albermac movie theater in the village of Pawling, I sat most definitely not-in-the-backrow.

I knew better.

That’s where the real teenagers sat, the makeout artists, so instead I perched up front, nervously, very nervously, not watching The Phantom Tollbooth. I was also not eating the bucket of popcorn in my lap, or drinking the Fanta, but instead sitting right next to Paul, who had his arm awkwardly over my shoulders, which feels good for no one: not the boy, the girl, or the chair.

I was 12. Maybe 13. Early in 6th grade for sure, because mid-way through, I got a Dorothy Hamill haircut, and Paul never went to the movies, or sat with me on the school bus, ever again.

My eyes are glued to the movie, my brain locked into my best friend Jilly*, trying to telepath an desperate SOS, but she’s somewhere in the sea of rows behind me, no doubt sucking face with a boy much more handsome and experienced than Paul.

She was the youngest girl of 8; me the oldest of 4. Everything I learned, I learned from her. French kissing was on the most recent syllabus, and I cringed in disbelief when she instructed: “the boy’s tongue goes in your mouth!”

No way. I didn’t believe her. This could not be accurate. Ew. Like EW — who, what, where, when, how, and above all, WHY would someone do that? (clearly, not an early adopter.)

I’m locked into the popcorn, the movie plays with no sound reaching my ears, only the roar of nerves and anticipation. My feet are cold. It’s then he leans in and jams his tongue so far into my mouth he’d absolutely dislodge a piece of popcorn if there were any, or my epiglottis, of which there was one.

It was rough. And felt like a roto-rooter commercial.

I tried not to gag. To think, this is what I was waiting for?

It was awkward, gross, hard to breathe, and my lips felt bruised, smashed up against his teeth like that, despite the extra Bonnie Bell Lip Smacker, most definitely not a LipSmacker kiss.

He leaned back as quickly as he had lurched forward, like a crash-test dummy, and exhaled a week’s worth of breath, as if he swam across the lake underwater. He stared straight ahead at the movie, like nothing had happened. Like I wouldn’t be writing about this some 40 years later, his hand still awkward on my right shoulder, his breath gasping for air.

This can’t be right. This is what all the fuss is about?

I wondered what I did wrong. I had to have done something wrong. Did I not kiss back? How does one do that? I definitely did something wrong.

Girls can’t actually “want” to do this. Again. And for a long duration of time? Come to the movies JUST TO DO THIS? Not what I expected, not in the least, so clearly something must be wrong with me. Was I broken? Not him, couldn’t be.

He was the kisser, me the kissee. Boy kisses girl. That’s how it was supposed to be, in the comics. In Teen Beat. In Casey Kasem’s top 100.

The truth was, looking back, neither of us did anything wrong, but I doubt he was thinking this. Not then. Not now. It’s a man’s world now; a boy’s world then.

I’m pretty confident it was his first kiss too, unless he kissed Darlene, pretty, blonde, and didn’t smell like horseshit. Plus her dad owned a little grocery, and she always brought candy to school. Everyone wants to be her friend.

He tried his best. I tried to like it. I did not. He probably didn’t either, but we could both check it off the list: first kiss: done.

When I think about first kisses, I wonder if I’ll get a next first kiss. It’s gotta happen, sometime, doesn’t it? Eventually? What are the odds? (If there’s a polymarket prediction market on a woman over 60 having a next first kiss, somebody deal me in.)

I think about where and when it will be, not where on my body, I presume my lips, but a woman can hope, can’t she?

Rather, where I will be physically, geographically – and when? How long do I have to wait? Will I have a shower chair? A toilet seat riser? Sensible shoes?

Who am I kidding; I’m already in the sensible shoes club.

Will I still have my own teeth? Will I have veneers or dentures? What does that mean for kissing — will he be able to tell?

Will they resemble white, or will they turn that dull gray-white like a favorite t-shirt you keep for far too long. You think it’s still white until you see an actual white shirt, then realize, no longer white, not even close, the dank dinginess would fail to be accepted even at Goodwill.

Here’s the thing: why am I worrying about my own future dingy t-shirt teeth and not the teeth of the presumed to be kisser?

I’m not a freak, nor in the Epstein files, so the age of the future kisser will most definitely be AARP card-carrying, and with any hope, can drive at night. As a woman, even an older woman, I’m still that 6^th grade girl, worrying about my appearance, how to keep my teeth white, what I should do and how to do it, and not once questioning the flossing capability of my next future kisser.

This next first kiss is what I anxiously wish to do again, someday, sometime, somewhere with someone with his own teeth, own IRA, and his own place, and perhaps, use his tongue with a little more restraint and intent.

wrote about this first kiss before — you can read that here. Searched for an awkward photo of me, instead of made-for-TV Laura Ingalls, but in storage, so next time.