Oh those lovely firsts in romance: first glance, first hello, first dance, first roll in the hay. . .those things I always remember. Hell, I can remember what I wore the day I met my first boyfriend. (Blue jumpsuit, no judging it was 1976) Anyhow, I can remember all sorts of details from all the most significant first dates but I can never remember the first kiss. I never forget an outfit, either. (First date with the boy I lost my virginity to: high wasted jeans, Kelly green silky dressy blouse) I wish I could blame my forgetfulness on shutting down all memories of great first dates which launched relationships that ended badly.
I honestly don’t remember my first kiss with this new boyfriend. I’m sure it was an amazing kiss because he is a great kisser. I remember where we were, how it felt to be in his arms. And I remember what I was wearing. (orange floral fit and flare summer frock. I did the walk of shame with aplomb) But the very first intrinsic feeling of his lips and my lips meeting is gone in a vapor of the important things I’ve forgotten.
Maybe it’s because I don’t expect much from the very first kiss. It is rare the first kiss is memorable outside of the sheer fact a step into the physical from the platonic has been taken. It takes a few kisses practiced over and over again to know how your lover wants his or her mouth taken. Once this is weighed out, experimented with, and replicated again and again that is when the kiss becomes memorable. That is the “first” kiss I remember.
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