I was a late bloomer in the kissing department. I heard alllllll my friends at school talk about who kissed so-and-so on Monday morning after a fun weekend (and during the rest of the week, for that matter), but I had yet—at the ripe old age of 17—to kiss a single boy.
Sure, I went to parties* where we played truth or dare or spin the bottle, but I always weaseled my way out of having to actually kiss someone else. Call me crazy, but I had this ridiculous notion of my first kiss being something out of a (modern-day) fairytale. I wanted the romance and I wanted it to be so wonderful that I’d have the foot-popping** excitement.
Yeah…that’s not how it happened at all.
The summer before my senior year of high school, I went to Europe. (So maybe I was 16? How old are you then? I think I was 17, but I’d have to consult my awesome journal to make sure, and my journal is packed away and somewhere over the ocean inside a crate and on a boat right now, so you get my memory instead.) Anyway, I went to Europe with my best friend, plus about 20 other students our age. It was a whirlwind, express trip where you see six countries in five days, and it’s where I fell in love; I fell in love with Europe and vowed I’d return. Luckily, I kept that promise. Whoops…digressing again.
|me in Florence, but a few years later. All of my pictures from that first trip are on their way here.|
So there I was in Europe: Florence, Italy, to be specific. That whole trip I experimented with different alcohol***—not much, because it was my first time actually drinking and I didn’t want to go too crazy, but enough for me to actually feel relaxed. We were at a club in Florence and I was wearing a new top I bought that afternoon at the market. (I specifically remember this, because I loooooved that top; I dubbed it “my lucky top.”) Everyone was dancing to very European “techno” music, so I joined in. Then this boy started dancing with me. OH MY! Between the loud thump thump of the base and the rest of the crazy atmosphere, we exchanged names.
He said his name was Lorenzo and he was from Paris; I also remember that he was only a smidgen taller than me (5’5″ or 5’6″, maybe?), and good looking.
I danced with him for a little bit, and before I knew it, I could tell he was going to kiss me. MY FIRST KISS! OH EM GEE! I internally started to freak out, but knew I had to keep up my cool American teenager persona in front of this French dude. Pretend you know what you’re doing. Don’t act like this is your first kiss. I repeated that over and over.
And then he kissed me.
A full on, right smack dab on the mouth, kiss.
And it was horrible.
You guys, it was bad…really bad. He used tongue (waaaaaay too much tongue), and I distinctly remember literally having to wipe my face after he was done attacking it with his mouth. It was so gross that I mentally swore off kissing for a very long time after that experience.
Even though it was the worst kiss I’ve ever, ever had (sorry, Lorenzo), at least I can say that my first kiss was in Florence with a guy from Paris named Lorenzo. Yeah, at least that part is pretty cool!
*Mom, if you’re reading this—and I know you are—I’m just kidding…I never went to any parties. I’m totally making this up right now. Parties were bad and I was good, therefore, I never went to any.
**If you don’t know what I’m talking about, then you need to go watch Princess Diaries.
***Mom, I also never drank before I was 21 years old (except for that
time we were in the Bahamas and you gave me a Bahama Mama to
drink…when I was 16, except for then), so I’m definitely making that part up, too
****Linking up with The Life of Bon’s Throwback Thursday