Ah, my first kiss. His name was Luke. Branson School lower parking lot. After a Christmas tree lighting event which I was attending despite my Jewishness because I’m the second least observant Jew in the world — the first being my mother, who at that moment was still standing at the Christmas tree making small talk with the other mothers and probably looking for me.
Most of the details of the experience have faded over time. I know that I felt deep shame over the fact that I hadn’t managed to get my first kiss accomplished back in grammar school. And Luke, who was a sophomore while I was merely a freshman, seemed really awe-inspiring to me not only because of his seniority but also for his height and the snazzy sweater vests he wore (I was 13, what do you expect?) But my sense is that that first kiss wasn’t anything like what I was expecting. I mean, I’d been paying quite close attention in Little Darlings and the other R-rated movies I’d somehow managed to see — and my friends and I had acted out kissing stuffed animals — so I think I believed that kissing was just the meshing of two people’s lips. I’ll bet I was thoroughly flummoxed by all the tongue action.
The part that sticks out in my mind the most is the fact that post kiss, I ran back up the driveway that connects the lower parking lot to the upper one at something close to the speed of light, feeling literally electrified.
Ah, the sweet innocence of youth. Something that isn’t examined at all in my book, Party Girl — which starts (I’m sorry, Elaine’s dad) with a menage a trois scene.
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