Tonsil Hockey Cherry Poppin'

My first kiss was not a transcendental experience like what is usually so common in a Hollywood movie, not at all. In fact, it kind of transpired like how every other teenage milestone does, with a heavy helping of poor planning, impulsiveness, and just a pinch of awkwardness.

I remember waking up that day with an odd feeling in my head. Somewhere between dread and anticipation, a little brain elf was reminding me that I had a date planned for the night. The date itself was pretty uneventful, consisting of a walk on the town, (or in this case neighborhood corner store), and then a dry listening session to some esoteric tunes that I had obsessively worshiped at the time and that she had obliviously ignored. But of course all the fun had to come to an end eventually, and as we stood on my porch under the pale streetlight, I looked into her eyes with the kind of spark that could only mean desire, and she looked into mine and couldn’t help but look confused. We stood there for a few moments, waiting for something to happen until it was clear that one of us actually had to make it happen ourselves, and I worked up the only kind of courage I had (the most charming kind) and said, “Hey, don’t you want to give me some sugar?”

At that, she shrugged and smiled sheepishly, obviously impressed that she was being courted by someone so suave, and not because she was trying very hard to not laugh. As she leaned in, and I did too, I thought about how she so clearly looked maybe a little desperate, and as our lips locked, I thought about the funny taste of her breath, and the trickle of her saliva that was now sitting under my bottom lip, and about the millions of microbes that called the squishy warm tongue muscle home, and I realized that the only reason that I was kissing her was that she probably would’ve gotten bored with me if I hadn’t, and I had a reputation to uphold, clearly.

At least she liked it, right? 

Oh.  
Right.