Your Kiss is on My List

We wandered around outside, in the dark, around what would have been called the recess area, if middle schoolers weren’t way too old for recess. I could feel him slide closer to me as we walked, and I knew he was going to kiss me. My first real kiss. I was twelve. He was a tall band geek. But I totally dug him… until he kissed me.

Something was off. I had been obsessing about this boy, agonizing over whether or not he would call me (I wasn’t allowed to call boys—too forward). I giggled when I heard his name, blushed when he talked to me. I had passed countless notes about him to my BFF. So, now that I had him… what? Why did I feel so let down?

This is not an easy scene to reconstruct 21 years later. I don’t even remember why we were hanging around the school at night. There must have been some sort of event going on, because, after the ill-fated kiss, I ran inside to find my best friend to tell her all about me, and him, and the kiss, and….

As soon as I told her, it began: the firestorm of emotions that can only be elicited from a 13 year old. Somehow, with this kiss, I had betrayed her. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how. But her wrath indicated that it was undoubtedly a betrayal of the highest degree.

That night began what would escalate into my first friend break-up. The progression was slow and torturous. It took several months of fighting in the hallways at school; sobbing, late night phone calls; and her haughtily returning of her half of our best friend charm to me (she was ST END; I was BE FRI) to dissolve our relationship.

The boy? The boy was lost in the shuffle. I was too busy fretting and obsessing over what was happening with my best friend to be concerned about a boy. But now, reflecting on this first tumultuous break-up with another girl, it seems amazing that I am a lesbian at all.

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