You Like Me, You Really Like Me
I found myself, the other day, remembering my first kiss. Or, rather, my first french kiss, the first time I was kissed by someone in a way that was something approaching romantic or sexual or the weird mixture of both that it seemed at the time. To my complete embarrassment, I can’t remember her name, or even what she really looked like, but I do remember that it was this completely humiliating, terrible experience, mostly because I had no idea what I was doing and that was immediately obvious to her; she went from “I think I like you” to “Seriously, what the fuck was that?” in about two seconds, and the instant was totally gone.
Thing is, despite that – And I knew that everything had gone wrong at the time, this wasn’t some anvil waiting to drop on my head later – I also remember the fact that, for the entire next day, I was glowing from the experience, smitten and with lips all a-tingle from the night before. I was, somehow, convinced that everything was not the end of the world and/or my lovelife, but instead, that things were looking up in a way that I’d never quite been able to bring myself to believe before. More than the kiss, I remember the next day’s afterglow, and the smile I couldn’t manage to wipe from my lips. I don’t know if that’s a selective memory trying to save me from blushes or a sign of an overly optimistic outlook at a young age, but if I’m entirely honest, I’m not sure that I care.
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