Life is full of firsts. 

There’s first love, the first kiss, the first slow-dance… it’s odd, isn’t it, that so many ‘firsts’ in life relate to love?

I was fifteen when I experienced my first kiss.  (And no, it wasn’t with Mr. Oliver.)  I’d just been allowed out on a real date – as opposed to the usual group thing, when my boyfriend’s brothers/sisters/ parents were around (they were Catholic, so it was a large family) – and I was more than a little nervous.

Sean was my best friend’s oldest brother.  He was cute.  The first time we met, I was in seventh grade and he was in ninth, and it was “like” at first sight.  Although he was older and went to a different school, his sister invited me over to their house often enough to more than make up for it.

Sean made it clear that he liked me, always hanging around when I came over, always teasing me.  He was smart; he was quick with a retort or a comeback.  He played clarinet in the school band. And he was an Older Man.  I was smitten.

As we paused that night on my parents’ front porch after our date (and in full view of any nosy neighbors who might’ve been watching), I knew the moment of truth had finally arrived.  He put his arms around me and pulled me closer.  He lowered his mouth to mine.

And… we kissed.

It was very nice, as kisses go.  Of course, I had nothing to compare it to at the time.  This isn’t so bad, I remember thinking, it’s easy, really…

… and then he slipped his tongue in my mouth.

I was startled. How strange, I remember thinking, to go from our previous teasing, punch-me-on-the-arm and snap-my-bra-strap way of showing that we liked each other, to… this.  This was grown-up stuff.  This was serious.  This was… nice.

After I got over the initial shock, I responded enthusiastically (at least, I think I did). I was relieved that I’d participated in – and survived – my first kiss.  Despite my fears beforehand – would I have garlicky breath after our shared pizza? Would I know what to do?  Would he have garlicky breath? – things just sort of came naturally.  I had kissed someone for the first time ever, and I’d liked it.

But I was also relieved to have it out of the way.

There were other firsts to come – all of them awkward, endearing, and forgettable (or unforgettable) in equal measure.  I still have my first love letter from Sean, tucked away in a box in the closet (and no, Mr. Oliver doesn’t know.  He doesn’t need to know).  I have the first carnation I got from another boy, and I still remember the thrill I got when he gave it to me. 

In his senior year of high school, Sean met a blonde-haired girl, and that, as they say, was that.  I didn’t like that he teased me – frequently – about my writing.  While he found my constant scribbling amusing – ‘tell me, Katie, did you send that story off to Playboy yet?’ – his chauvinistic attitude irritated me.  And it wounded me, too.  Writing was an intrinsic part of who I was, even then.  Needless to say, we didn’t last.

Eventually I met Mr. Oliver, and I had another first… I fell in love. 

Like Sean, he was older than me; but unlike Sean, he loved the fact that I wrote.  He’s still my biggest fan.  He’d been married before, and he had a young son.  I had reservations.  But I overcame them, and after a year’s engagement, we said our vows and made our commitment.

Since then, we’ve experienced other ‘firsts’ in our life together; first love, first child together, first home of our own.  And while I’ll always remember Sean and his fervent kisses on my parents’ porch that night, my first love – Mr. Oliver – is the love that will last.

And he’s not a bad kisser, either.

 

 

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