I have been told that there is no way that I could have as many stories about my life as I have shared on the old Blog O’ Cheese, but it’s true.
I am convinced that most people have quite a few interesting stories, but the way in which they tell them makes them not quite as intriguing as they originally thought. My life stories are dull and slouchingly uninteresting. Nevertheless, I try and add a little cornstarch and nutmeg to help them become compelling enough that my readers will actually finish reading the post. That is quite an introduction, but I shall attempt to provide a story that is both my #2 most embarrassing moment (After the poop my pants story.) and the story of my first kiss.
Now, my friend Steve can and will verify this story, although his memory of it will obviously not be as clear or as thorough as mine. So I ask of you Steve to at least verify that this story absolutely did occur during our fragile 16th year of life. (Perhaps it was my 17th year of life, but I am not yet ready to admit to the world that I did not kiss a female until my 17th year of life; or a male for that matter. Wait, wait... not that I kissed a male after my 17th year of life or at any other time during my life! What I am trying to say is that this is the story of my first kiss.)
I had always been fidgety and awkward with the ladies. Wait, hold on, let me rephrase. I WOULD have always been awkward and fidgety with the ladies had I had the guts to actually speak to them. In fact, I don’t believe I even went on a date the for the first eight months I was “allowed” to date. Ha ha, even saying the word “allowed” makes me laugh now. I can assure you that my parents had no trouble keeping me from dating before I was sixteen years old. In fact, had I suggested to my parents when I was 15 that I would like to take out a girl, I am sure they would look at each other in disbelief and laughed.
It’s not that I didn’t think about girls or wish to date them. It is just that my entire life I had played a roll that had worked well for me: that of the “moronic goofball”. I was the perfect laugh a minute freak show, and I was invited along on many excursions simply to provide some comic relief, which I was happy to do.
When I was seventeen, I began to become wary of my girl problems. I had several bad experiences on the few dates I had gone on. I wondered if I would ever get a date with an attractive female that would not be considered a “pity date for the funny guy”. Needless to say, I was more than a little surprised when my dad came home from work one day and informed me that he had met a girl at my school that had a “crush on me”.
As he told me her name, my brain turned inside out for some sort of image, some idea of who this person was. For the sake of the story, I shall refer to her from this time forward as “F.P.”. I could not picture this girl for the life of me and I was fairly sure I had not even spoken to her. The truth is that my dad could have told me the name of any girl in our school and I could have been fairly confident that I had not ever spoken to them.
I turned to my trusty yearbook and located her photo. She was decent enough looking, but sure enough, I had seen her but not spoken to her at any time. However, I knew my friend Steve was good friends with her and getting to know her would not be a problem. I also knew that knowing that this girl liked me already and that she was halfway attractive made my anxiety levels soar to newfound heights. If I was holding an anxiety hammer at the county fair, and I slammed it down, the bell would have surely have rung on “neurotic loon-bucket”.
I recall getting up the courage to speak to her after class one day. As you may know, when I get nervous, my hands sweat like a warm popsicle. I am not sure what my opening line was, but I am sure there was plenty of sundering, slobbering in that frail, thin body of mine. Yet, for some odd reason I can’t explain, she continued to talk to me and even requested that I call her. A girl had never asked ME to call HER. This was new, hollowed ground I was treading.
It is at this point of the story that I must tell you a little about F.P. At our High School we had what was referred to as HTVS, or Highland Television Station. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, a student produced newscast would be broadcast throughout the school with the latest on everything from Pep Club to the Rodeo Club. It just so happened that F.P. was an anchor, no THE anchor girl on the newscast. You shall see how this is relevant to the story at a later point - and it’s relevant - oh so relevant.
Well, as we got to know each other, I held way off on my usual turd-brain routine and pretended to be a normal guy - which was of course, difficult. Things soon became very clear that she was, for whatever reason, very interested in me. I had never actually attended Homecoming, nor did I have any desire to attend, but I found myself being pressured into going - by her friends of course.
I did not know much about proper dance etiquette or how to even dress, but one thing become enormously clear for me that night: I was going to get my first kiss. There was only one problem: I was not sure how to accomplish this task.
After a couple quick dances, our group was off to Classic Skating, where we had the entire rink reserved. We did a bit of skating, but I knew the time had come to bust a move - at least the best way a geeky, pimple-faced sixteen year old knew how to bust a move. I looked around to find a place where we could be alone to no avail. Finally, out of the corner of my eye, I could see the “party room” that was usually reserved for the birthday parties of six year olds. I pulled myself together, swallowed hard and found myself saying the following words:
“Can I kiss you?”
To which she replied, “Here?”
To which I responded, “Yeah sure, here.”
To which she replied, “Lets go somewhere where we can be alone.”
To which I replied, “Uh..okay.”
We walked quickly to the party room. I am more than certain quite a few in our party saw us escape to this secluded place. Once inside the party room, she was not content. She wanted the lights turned off AND the door locked. I was not sure what she had in mind, but whatever it was, she did not want to be seen. The problem was that there was not a lock on the door nor was there a light-switch.
She made due the best she could by pushing a large garbage can in front of the door and telling me to “close my eyes”. She was clearly more experienced at this than I.
I am not afraid or ashamed to admit that I had no idea what I was doing. I was not sure if I should be pecking, smooching or opening my mouth. What occurred during those 2 minutes can only be described as a haze of slobber, uncoordinated bungling and, ultimately - discomforting agony. This lovely moment may have continued for at least seconds more until the garbage can fell over and we heard giggles. My first kiss had come to an abrubt end.
Things went well for the rest of the evening, although F.P. did seem a tad aloof. I could have cared less; I was on cloud 9. No, what is the cloud after 9? I want to say 10, but that seems too obvious. Who labels the clouds anyway? Whatever cloud comes after 9, that was the cloud I was on - for my virgin lips had tasted of the sweet nectar of forbidden green apple lip gloss for the first time.
I returned to school the following Monday with a spring in my step and a whistle in my whistle. I reported to first period class to watch my new “girlfriend”...”report the news”. Surely, I would be the king of the school for at least a week.
I first knew something was wrong when I could see the co-anchor smirking at her. As the opening music faded, he looked at her and said, “Hey, F.P. how was Homecoming?” Now, most the folks in my first period class were aware that I was F.P.'s homecoming date and I suddenly felt the pressure of their stares beating down on me. The anchor continued, “I heard about the Classic Party Room! How was it?”
There is something about a bunch of females staring directly at you and yelling, “WOOOOO” that will make a nerd like I, crawl under the desk and even below the floor tiles. Now when the average jock, Joe Cool, gets a reaction like this, they generally high five their buddies and smile at all the ladies in the room like they could be next. Not I. I turned bright red. Then I turned more red. Then I just sat, red, until the whoops and hollering subsided. Yeah, I was cool. Cool as ice.
F.P. never again wanted anything to do with me. She was just in it for the one NCMO (as those at the Y like to refer to it as) and then I was tossed aside, like the poor self esteemed dork that I was. Plus, without a doubt, my unique kissing style threw her for a loop. You know it takes a special lady...
And there you have it - the story of my first kiss.
I have no shame left. If flew out the window with my poop story.