I remember the first time I kissed a girl.
I didn't like it.
In those days, the female population still wasn't fully immunized against the cooties virus. That happened sometime around grade five or six, with many odd physical side effects from the inoculation. I won't get into the nitty gritty.
It was a strange feeling, as to my mind, lips were devices for sipping, slurping, and flicking with your finger to make hideous noises.
So it comes as no surprise, then, that when the concept of kissing was introduced, I met it with disbelief and disgust.
'Put your lips on mine," she said. I asked her why.
'I want you to taste my chap stick! It's cherry!"
The reason seemed valid, as it wouldn't make sense for me to lick her lips. Lip licking was something you did to yourself, after all.
So I did.
My dry un-glossed lips met her moist and cherry scented ones. Really, that's all that happened. Neither of us knew what to do next, so we just stood there, somewhat awkwardly, lips touching but not much else.
I broke the introduction to a kiss. Something about me breathing in her nose air or whatnot.
Moments later she, of course, was telling everyone about her new boyfriend and how she was going to get married and have exactly 1.4 kids, a dog, and a white picket fence. I don't know where she picked up on all that, but at the time it didn't matter.
Because I had the cooties and was under mandatory lunch-hour quarantine.
Apparently once you have it once you never get it again, like the chicken pox. Even so, I wasn't eager on a second round.
That, and the story with it, is for later.