Read this first. Then you’ll understand why I wrote this:

So my first kiss was when I was 15. My church teen group had got together and we were going on a retreat somewhere up north (hey, it was 22 years ago. Give me a break). There was this extremely smooth, sweet youth counselor who I had a tremendous crush on. Can’t remember his name. I would call him Malcolm but that, as we now know, is no longer an acceptable name. Okay, we will try Keegan.

Anyway, on the way back, John, the pastor in charge of the trip suddenly stopped talking to me. I asked him what I had done, no answer. Why aren’t you talking to me? What can I do to get you to talk to me again? He smiles, wickedly. “Go kiss Keegan.”

I turn bright red. I am a plump, dorky teenager, he is a suave, ever so cute older man (maybe 17? 19? Who knows?). There is no way I can do this. This was, of course, before I embraced my inner vixen and did whatever the heck I felt like.

John and my supposed friend Linda start chanting “Kiss him. Kiss him.”

The entire bus starts up with the chanting. I have two choices. I can refuse to kiss Keegan and constantly be ridiculed for not doing so. Or I can kiss him and constantly be ridiculed for doing so…but at least I would have got the chance to kiss him.

I (mentally) gird my loins, whirl around and press my lips to Keegan. I remember that it was sweet and innocent and tasted vaguely of oranges (this might be because of the orange crush he was drinking at the time). He lightly pressed his hand to the back of my head to extend the kiss just a second or two longer. I’m pretty sure he was doing it for my benefit, not his. This would make me seem just one iota cooler.

I remember drawing back and seeing his smile. Then I sat back down in my seat on the bus. John is laughing. Linda is looking at me in awe. No one had believed that I would ever do anything of the sort. The entire bus starts cheering. It was weird and empowering and embarrasing and great all at the same time. Ah, sweet mystery of peer pressure.

I never saw Keegan again after that. About a month later, I met a really great guy named Dean who told me he loved me and that worked out ever so well. Why, yes, that is sarcasm. How did you guess? I wrote a pretty depressing poem about the whole experience. Let’s just put it this way – losing your virginity in a laundry room is not the fun-filled, exciting joy ride you would think it would be.

Previous Comments:

At 12:03 AM, The Lioness said…

“Let’s just put it this way – losing your virginity in a laundry room is not the fun-filled, exciting joy ride you would think it would be.”

See, this is the problem I have with you. You write about sad stuff in a funny way. So I know this isn’t a laughing matter but I still chuckled. Stop this insanity right this minute!