Every girl dreams of her first kiss. It’s supposed to be a magical moment reminisced about throughout the years. I dreamed about my first kiss constantly when I was a young’un. I imagined foot popping, butterflies, sweaty palms, the whole she-bang. It was going to be something I told my future daughter about while we wore pjs and ate ice cream, one of those memories that carry you through into old age.
But alas, like most big moments of my life, my first kiss can only be described in one way: Awkward. Now, I don’t mean my first kiss was awkward in the way that all “firsts” are awkward. No bumped noses or badly timed giggles. There was nothing endearing about this moment.
No. My first kiss was so awkward it was mortifying.
His name was Sean and he was a Bad Boy (capital B, on both of those words). He was one of my sister’s friends in grade 11 and was much (a little bit) older, very rough around the edges and very fascinating to me as I dabbled in Goth and tried to be more “unique” in the way that all 14 year old girls want to be more “unique” (by becoming just like everyone else).
Now while this kiss wasn’t magical it certainly was memorable. Even now, 13 years later, I still remember it vividly. It was just after the Friday Night Teen Skate and the group of us were all hanging around Juan de Fuca, killing time until our 10pm parental pick up. It was December and there were Christmas decorations up all around the rec centre. Sean had stolen me one of the hanging icicles which I found far more endearing than the act warranted. I was completely smitten, giggly in contrast to my dark clothes and make up, nervous and excited. Somehow, from the moment he handed me that icicle, I knew it was going to happen. My first kiss.
It was about 5 minutes before my dad was scheduled to pick Julia and me up and Sean and I were hanging back behind everyone, pretending to have privacy. He smiled and I smiled. He leaned in and I titled my head up. Time slowed down and I readied my foot to pop in the way of old movies and “Princess Diaries”.
That was when I saw it. He was coming at me with his tongue out.
At the last moment, as if in slow motion, I turned by head away in disgust and horror only to have his tongue hit my eyeball in what was quite possibly the most disgusting feeling I’ve ever had. The moment seemed to last forever as he licked my eyeball.
I repeat: he licked my eyeball.
Now, dear reader, I have always had a complex around eyes. It’s why I never wear contacts and why (much to my incredible shame) I could not look at my mother for weeks after her eye surgery. It’s why I had to be held down by my dad and brother the last time I needed eye drops. It’s a big deal and this was quite possibly the worst thing my 14 year old self could have imagined happening.
I freaked out in what many may have considered an overreaction, desperately trying to bring myself to tears to wash away the feeling of his tongue hitting my eye (a feeling I still remember and hope never to repeat). My extreme reaction caused my sister to run over, ready to pound the crap out of Sean to defend my honour. He was terrified and confused. I was still just disgusted.
My sister, arm around me, asked what happened.
“He licked my eyeball!” I howled.
Julia laughed and was relieved that it wasn’t something worse (as if anything could be worse than eyeball licking?). When asked about it Sean was defensive, saying he went in with his tongue out in hopes of catching me by surprise and scoring a French Kiss.
He was definitely not impressed with my reaction. Which was fine by me, I was definitely not impressed by his shenanigans!
We were all saved from further conversation by the arrival of my dad, who took my sister’s laughter and my horror in stride as we got in the car, barely curious as to what had happened. Julia told him anyway, laughing the entire time. I didn’t want to talk about it, still reliving the horror in my mind.
I still have nightmares about this event. It was so far from the first kiss all girls imagine and it made me afraid of French Kisses for years to come (something I’m sure my dad was relieved about, as he had always told me I couldn’t date until I was 37 anyways).
Though, all terror aside, I suppose it was a memorable moment.