My friends and I sometimes play this game, usually way too late in our relationships, where we ask each other a series of “first” questions. First time smoking weed, first time drunk, first time you were felt up, etc. Sometimes the stories are sad, mostly hilarious, and always enlightening.
Growing up in the church, there was an unusually high amount of importance placed on “firsts,” because, well, it determined how “good” you were. Good girls had no stories, bad girls had many. I spent most of my diary-writing days imagining what my stories would be. Of course I wanted them all to be with a man who looked like Jonathan Taylor Thomas and was deeply devoted to me, and I wanted the kiss to be underwater at camp. (I was obsessed with Mariah Carey’s “Dreamlover” music video from 1998-1999.)
My first kiss was not at all what I expected. I was a good little 14 year-old Christian, and my only knowledge of the art of kissing had come from re-watching scenes from Cruel Intentions and listening to my camp friend’s make out stories. So when I FINALLY got my first boyfriend my Freshman year of high school, we waited about 5 months before kissing, because I was scared shitless. No, I’m not joking.
It was Halloween, and my parents had dropped us off at a haunted house close to the neighborhood. After being slightly disappointed by a few rednecks in bloody masks, we wandered to the park across the street. I was ready for my first, and he was visibly nervous. What follows is a foreshadowing of the nature of our relationship.
I told him I was cold and so we sat down on a bench. I told him that he should lie on top of me in order to warm me up (super subtle). He proceeded to talk about his favorite foods… I told him to “shut up and kiss me.” He did. I bit his tongue by accident. I hated it. We stopped. He tried to continue kissing me. I played with my ringtones instead. My parents picked us up.
It was 3 months before we kissed again, and this time it was much, much better. After that, we kissed often, and heavily, and continued down the awkward path that is the discovery of your first relationship.
Of course The First had a huge impact on my life because he was the first, which is why I will often mention him in respect to other areas of my life, and never (ever) stop comparing him to the men I date, even now. He was a perfect first boyfriend, and a horrible first kiss. But that’s the way it goes, I suppose.
This blog is both a diary and narrative of my strange dating sagas, a way to keep from forgetting the good, the bad, and the certifiably insane. It’s also an exploration of where this strange habit began, as it’s been almost nine years since I have gone without consistently (albeit casually) dating at least one person. My friends make jokes about it, the guys I date often hate it, and I can’t seem to figure out why it won’t end. It is probably equally important to mention that The First was the first—and the last—person I had a serious relationship with, though I have fallen much harder for many men since. I often wonder, as many women do if I will ever be in a serious relationship again. I’m not sure, but in the mean time, I figure I can share all the crazies.