Kiss & Tell

My first kiss took place in the Botanical Gardens of City Park, during Christmas time, surrounded by a galaxy of twinkling lights and my own movable atmosphere of Ralph Lauren Polo Green cologne, which I borrowed from my dad.

Her name was Kristen Dove, and she would grow up to be a lesbian of female prison guard or inmate caliber. But before that, before I kissed her, before high school, she was a small girl with a round face and eyes the size of coasters. On the bus ride to City Park, the other members of St. Andrew Catholic Youth Organization (SANYO) covered their mouths with their hands and whispered to one another about my plan to kiss her. When the girl behind me on the bus, a pretty dark-skinned girl with blunt bangs named Brynne, asked if it were true, I acted annoyed and told her to mind her business before turning around and congratulating myself on the piece of gossip I’d planted myself. I didn’t want an audience, but I wanted the attention. Plus, I wanted the information to reach Kristen so she wasn’t completely blindsided when I tried to stick my tongue in her mouth.

Like all first kisses, it crackled and flashed — burning open a tunnel in me through which I would later fall into the unforeseen lassitude of kissing and kisses yet to come. It was euphonic in the way that only a new experience can be, but this was symphony of new things. The sound of our collective spit churning from mouth to mouth. The feeling of another person’s lips against mine — compelling us into a tango of embraces and releases and an intimate dialogue without words. And then, there were the tastes of powdered sugar, and Sprite, and sweat, and insecurity, and plastic.

I used to keep journals when I was young, making entries occasionally and often haphazardly. I would also lie, which felt like disownership of my own life — causing me to eventually give up journaling all together. But on the night of my first kiss, I wrote about the flavors I tasted in Kristen’s mouth. Everything else surrounding the kiss; riding the Ferris wheel, fidgeting with my puka shell necklace, finding just the right spot in the garden; felt trivial to the story compared to the fact that the kiss had molested my senses. Sure, the scenery was beautiful, but the experience within was the only thing worth reporting.

Years later, I would kiss a girl whose mouth tasted like apple juice, crabmeat, and the honor roll. We dated for more than two years, and every so often, I’d pick up a new flavor like spearmint or suspicion, but the three base flavors were constant. After her, I mostly kissed members of the same sex, which offered a completely different internal experience and sometimes even boners.

The adolescent kiss is different from the adult kiss in one way: the expectations that motivate them. I used to kiss and expect only the simple spark that comes from kissing someone for the first time. Now, there are expectations of fulfillment, discovery, sex, compatibility, adventure, love, reassurance, gratification, envy, happiness, comfort, and sometimes, revenge. Even drunk kisses with strangers in nightclubs are fueled by the prospect of a short-term future, which may include sex within hours of the first kiss. These kisses all taste the same to me, though: cigarette smoke, lime, carelessness, cover charge, and whatever he's drinking.

The first time I kissed my exboyfriend, McBougie, we were standing in the doorway of his friend's apartment on his birthday in June of 2008. Because he towered over me, I had to raise myself onto my tiptoes before wrapping my arms around his neck and collapsing into his frame. There were hallways in that kiss. There were caves. There was solitude enough for the two of us. And here, I wanted to arrange furniture, and hang light fixtures, and nestle into a long life where we could be content and unbothered. He tasted like true love and doom. While we were dating, I kissed a political science major who tasted like amusement park pretzels and everything I hated about myself. After McBougie and I broke up, in-part due to my kiss with the political science major, I kissed a guy from Hitchcock, Texas whose kiss and dick tasted metallic all the time, even nine months after our first kiss.

I've kissed people and fallen through trap doors. I've choked on sea water. One time, I was kissing this guy who had a boyfriend with whom he'd been with for six years and I swear to God I tasted funeral-quality grief. Every time I kissed this guy who worked for CenturyLink, and heard "It's Not" by Aimee Mann. And just this weekend, I kissed a guy who had "Saint" tattooed across the side of his torso and I had the feeling I was boarding an airplane without saying goodbye to anyone.

On the ride home from City Park, I held Kristen's hand and stared out the window, watching New Orleans come and go. The following weekend, my SANYO group went to a Catholic youth conference where I witnessed other children speak in tongues and faint before the monstrance. On Monday morning, before first period, I went to the SANYO building where I resigned from my position as Vice President of the organization, citing religious differences with the charismatic movement.