So, I attended a summer literature program at the University of Edinburgh a few years back. It was a series of 2 three-week programs; some of us stayed for both, others just one or the other. Within the first few days of the first half, about ten of us bonded and became absolutely inseperable. We developed the habit of getting drunk at night, stumbling to class in the morning, taking naps in the afternoon, and then repeating the whole cycle over again. It was a good life.
On the last night of the first three weeks, we congregated at our favorite pub and proceeded to get very drunk. Two of the girls stood up on their chairs and shook their asses to “Heya” and were rewarded with tequila shots by the bartender. Admist the general chaos, one of our friends, S, was already in the “ah poor me” drunken stage. He was the sweetest guy - Asian-American geek, the youngest out of all of us, who considered himself a certified dork and was always touchingly happy to be part of the “in” crowd fir the first time in his life, according to him. (Having spent most of my high school years as an outcast, I knew how he felt.) He was also the cheapest date I’d ever met in my life; ie, he got drunk fast. Like after finishing one-third of a pint, he was wasted. Being a small Asian girl myself, I am pretty bad at holding my liquor, but it still takes a whole pint for me to get drunk. Anyway, during the course of our program we’d taken it upon ourselves to bring his alcohol level up to at least one full pint. And we succeeded gloriously. S had just finished his first pint, and instead of lying senseless on the floor, as he had been the first night we drank, he was pouring out his woes to his sympathetic but equally drunk friends.
This particular night his woes took on the form of a “nice guys don’t get the girls” rant. Two of our friends - B and D - were sitting on either side of him, trying to reassure him that he was a wonderful person and that he would have so many girls he’d have to chop them into tiny pieces in order to fit them all into the fridge.
“I’ve never even kissed a girl yet, you know,” he said glumly.
You’d think he was a North Korean refugee announcing that he’d never tasted chocolate. B and D gasped in disbelief and shocked sympathy. “Never? Not once?”
“Nope, never.”
I shrugged. Having had my own first kiss at 21, I was inclined to be less alarmist.
“Okay, that’s just unacceptable.” B said firmly. She was a pretty girl who looked like the stereotypical sorority chick - skinny and blonde, with a slight Texan twang. “We’re going to do this right now. I’m going to be your first kiss.”
S looked horrified. “No! I can’t!”
B, understandably, was somewhat offended by his reaction. “Why not?”
“Well,” S stammered, turning beet red. “I want my first kiss to be special.”
The table broke out into a chorus of disagreement, but B’s voice was the loudest. “S, you’re too old for daydreaming about kisses in the sandbox! Besides, first kisses always suck. You need to get it out of the way so you don’t scare off the next nice girl you meet.”
This dire possibility gave S pause. B sighed at his hesitation. “All right. How about I make out with Hazel first, just to show you how it’s done?”
I choked on my drink, while S’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. The rest of the boys at the table were speechless for about two seconds. “S, you can’t say no to that.” D said with much gravity. “Think of your friends!”
“What about me?” I interjected, but no one gave me a second glance. S, intimidated by the glares of his fellow men, finally nodded. “Uh, okay.”
B then turned to me. “Come on, Hazel, don’t tell me you’ve never kissed a girl before.”
“Um, actually, I haven’t.” I glanced around at the expectant faces and sighed. There was no way I was getting out of this one. Obediently I leaned forward and met B’s lips with my own.
It was the oddest feeling. B had delicate lips, and her mouth on mine was the lightest kiss I’d ever had. But she was a good kisser. The best kisser I’ve encountered, actually. No part of our bodies was touching but our lips, and that just barely. It was the most sensuous kiss I’d ever had.
After our much sought-after smooch, B turned around, put her hands on S’s shoulders, and leaned in without hesitation. S swallowed nervously and closed his eyes.
B pulled back after a few seconds, and her sigh made it clear she was thoroughly exasperated. “S,” she said impatiently. “You have to open your mouth when you kiss a girl. This isn’t kindergarten!”
S looked exteremly embarassed, while everyone else at the table fell over laughing. “This is a lot more difficult than I thought,” he said glumly. And then to the glee of the other boys at the table: “Can you guys show me again?”
I raised my brows in half-hearted protest, but at this point I had nothing more to lose. Already the entire bar was watching our table with avid interest. “Fine,” I grumbled, meeting B’s lips once more.
As soon as we parted, she said, “Okay, Hazel, you kiss S this time.”
Well, I’d already been kissed by a girl for the first time in my life; kissing a guy sounded tame in comparison. Dutifully I kissed him; S, following B’s advice, opened his mouth ever-so-slightly, but as soon as he felt my tongue he jumped as if he’d been bitten by a snake.
I rolled my eyes. “You need to keep your mouth open, S! You almost bit my tongue off!”
He ducked his head apologetically. “I’m sorry. This kissing thing is a lot of work.”
Just then, C, who’d been leaning over our chairs the entire time with interest, interrupted us. “Third time’s a charm, S. Come here.” And before S could protest, he found himself being quite thoroughly kissed by the third woman in five minutes. The guys hooted racacous encouragment.
C straightened up and passed judgement. “I think you got it, S!”
Enthusiastic applause greeted these words. S looked rather frazzled, but B just laughed and put her arm around him. “Now, wasn’t that the most special first kiss anyone could ever ask for?”
“Yes, that was special. Thank you SO MUCH for that,” D said fervently.
S gave him a weak smile that suggested he’d been kissed enough this night to last him until he was 40. “You’re welcome.”
As for myself, I made it my lifelong quest to seek out a man who kisses like a girl. Wish me luck.
