First French Kiss

My first French kiss was with a boy in a band. We worked together at a video rental store, where chatting was as big a part of the job as ringing up purchases and restocking candy. I was only slightly attracted to him, but he made me laugh, and he looked at me like I was a young Michelle Pfeifer. I was seventeen — which meant I was finally allowed to date — so when he asked me to be his girlfriend, I said “yes” without hesitation. 

I remember little about our brief relationship. I remember him leaving notes under my windshield wipers. I remember instant messaging him on the desktop computer my parents’ kept in our family’s living room. I remember holding his hand while he was driving, and I remember our first French kiss. My first French kiss ever. 

His band had just finished performing in someone’s garage. His pickup truck was the only one left in the yard. He leaned against it and gently pulled me close. I felt his lips part mine, and then I felt his tongue in my mouth. 

The kiss was too wet, too probing. His spit wasn’t just on my lips, it was all around my lips. I felt nothing, and then I felt disgust. I found myself questioning my sexuality. “Maybe I’m a lesbian?” I silently considered while he slobbered. I’d never been less attracted to him than I was at that moment. 

I broke up with him a few days later. I don’t remember what reason I gave him for breaking up, but I remember hugging him goodbye. 

I’ve French kissed a few guys since then, and a few women. Not all of those kisses were great, but most of them were way more fun than my first one.