My “first kiss” was with a gay boy. I was 18 years old.
It was syllabus week of my first semester of college, and I just moved my wardrobe, library and bow collection into my residence hall. My parents already hugged me goodbye, and now my brand new, interesting friends and I were guests at our very first college party, dewy-eyed and entirely too excited.
The room was hardly crowded. About 12 or 15 people milled around the apartment, meeting for the first time or getting reacquainted after a long summer apart. My friend, who I already knew played for the other team, had been dancing with me since the party started and had been getting progressively more hands-on as the night wore on. “On the Floor” and other quality music blared in the background. He leaned toward me a little too quickly. Our lips touched.
“No, no, no!” I said as I pushed him back, half smiling. I tried to keep a straight face as I reminded him, “You aren’t into me. We’re just friends. You’re attracted to boys.” He smiled his cute, sloppy grin back at me and less than 30 seconds later had moved on to other, more interesting individuals, all of the male gender (I must be a good kisser. I think I made a real impression on him).
Upon reflection of “The Kiss Incident” the following morning, a consensus was reached that, because neither tongue nor consent was involved, I was still a kiss virgin. This was bittersweet news for me. I had enjoyed an entire 12 hours of been-kissed enlightenment. I had eaten an apple with my kissed mouth and put ChapStick on kissed lips. Who had the right to take this away from me? Sexual orientation, attraction and love aside, it was still a kiss.
But alas, I agreed it was best not to count it. Better to have a real first kiss than one that means nothing, yadda yadda it’s romantic or whatever. So here I am, now 19, and I’ve still never been kissed. If I graduate from this place in the same condition, I’m asking for my own set of columns on the quad.
I had been almost-kissed prior to “The Kiss Incident” (by straight guys!). I might actually have racked up more almost-kisses than the Duggars have children. There was that one time in the back of a red SUV. Then there was that other time on my bedroom floor and that time I dated a guy for three months and all we did was cuddle. At this point, I’m basically a champion at evading lips. Want some advice? I’ve got all the answers.
I’m a rare breed, joined only by an elite company of those who have never been kissed. Famous members include Drew Barrymore in that one movie (She was a journalist, too! Ohmygod we’re, like, the same person!), Steve Carell in that other movie and that heinous couple on the “Virgin Diaries” that waited until their wedding day to lock lips. Oh wait, I guess that means they’ve kissed, didn’t they. Damn. Regardless, now I’m here with you to share my kiss-less life, every step of the way!
With this column, I intend to dish all the adventures of the unkissed — how much money I save on ChapStick (you would be surprised), what I do in my spare time (read books, man) and how I think babies are made. Just kidding, I know you get pregnant when you look at boys in swimsuits.
Seriously though, I’m excited to share my pursuit of my first kiss with you all, as well as the adventures I have along the way. Hopefully you will be entertained as my virgin lips are unleashed upon the world, and you will be my motivation to, by the end of these sixteen columns, have kissed a boy — for real this time.
