How to Have Sex
TMI: Tell Me About Your First Kiss
I’ll do you one better. I’ll tell you about my second.
My first kiss was in preschool behind the thick plastic windshield of a 3-year-old-size play car. Kids liked to throw rocks at that thick plastic window, which in time had become hazy with millions of gravel scratches. When my small friend and I got the bug to give kissing a try, we chose the play car for privacy.
We were mistaken. The play car was not so much a car as it was a raised windshield, suspended above the ground in a single sun-faded, bulbous plastic wall that had a tiny steering wheel embedded on one side. It may have been 3x3 feet in total.
The tiny windowed car front on our playground full of elementary school children was not in fact safe.
The children who saw our sweet peck told other children and we were teased mercilessly.
I don’t remember the feeling of his pudgy lips against mine, but I do remember the sound of laughter. I remember him moving away from me when we were caught. I can still see a vivid picture memory of my tiny hands squeezing together, which is where my eyes fell during the taunting and never left.
It’s a memory, but it’s not what any of us are here for.
My second first kiss was far superior. So much so that my second kiss is always the one I think of when I’m asked this question because it was the best first kiss I’ve ever known.
At the age of 17, I was active in the marching bands of both the high school and the college in my small town. I began marching in the college band as a freshman in high school, which affected my young love life in the biggest way.
I rapidly got over high school boys for having met specimens far surpassing the pimply, awkward peons that shared my high school hallways.
College boys were my new bread and butter. Especially boys who played music, and especially ones who played the drums.
My 17-year-old body found itself pining over dude-bros with sticks. One such man-boy was keen on me, too, and we made eyes at each other across the college marching band field.
I say man-boy because this guy was perfect. He was mousey and kept to the back of the pack. He was thin and tall with a smile that always curled one side of his mouth like a villain. He had horrible posture; he slumped his shoulders forward to stay hidden from the sky.
He had facial hair. He was messy. He smoked. His blood was 79% caffeine. He was sarcastic and apathetic. He smoked pot and lumbered, never walked.
He was also in his mid-20s, attending a large, public university in the cooler town North of ours, and had his own place in that cool, distant town.
One night, I went to that cool place. We lay in his single room, on his bed which was full of soft, mangled blankets and sheets that smelled of incense and smoke. He held the back of my full jeans and pressed me against him.
Early on, I told him I hadn’t kissed anyone before. I told him I wouldn’t kiss him until I was ready.
I was ready.
I raised myself onto one elbow to look over his face. He had wide, blue, doe-like eyes above sunken cheeks and the softest, palest pink lips framed with thick, full, mid-length stubble.
His doe eyes met mine on one of my visual laps and I saw something that made him irresistible. He was embarrassed.
His embarrassment at my attention made him delicious to me. I poured a sultry smile I didn’t know I had into two words:
“Hold still.”
I leaned in and brushed my lips like feathers against his. He leaned into our touch and I pulled myself away to look into his eyes again.
“I Said. Don’t. Move.”
His head dropped to the pillow beneath it. I got on top of him.
And then, I kissed him.
He lay still as I touched my lips to his. He struggled not to take hold of me as I licked and tasted his features. When I finally parted his lips and teeth with my tongue that met his for the very first time, I felt his body rumble with the effort of his resistance to moving.
My second first kiss was one of the hottest kisses of my life. I still can’t say what made it hot. It’s a competition between my meeting my sexual nature, his willingness to play, the taste of his soft pink lips that melted into mine, his rumbling effort, and the combination of my total control and his enjoyment of it.
Then again, there is no contest. It’s all of it. All of the above.
I’m Brett Jenae Tomlin, The Anxious Enthusiast.
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