My First Kiss :: Personal Narrative

My First Kiss â€Å"Kissing a watermelon? No, I’ve never been THAT desperate.† My sister Amy went on to tell me about her friend who dared to do such a feat. â€Å"Did it help?† I asked. â€Å"We don’t know! She hasn’t kissed a real guy yet!† Amy and I burst into a fit of giggles, and I realized how being in the company of my younger sister regressed me to her awkward, girlish high school age. I had forgotten, until this bedside 2:00 a.m. conversation, how I used to be obsessed with popularity and sports cars, and how I daydreamed of my first kiss. But Amy had much more â€Å"experience† than I did at her age. She and her friends had passed their adolescent initiation of first kisses—at least the kind on the lips. â€Å"In the back of the CHURCH van? With everyone watching? Where did he kiss you?† â€Å"On the LIPS!† she squealed. Amy’s excitement and anxiety about kissing ignited a rush of memories. How I used to romanticize about first kissing someone! I thought that I would be in a long flowing gown, and the handsome young man would bring me flowers, and ask to court me. Our kiss would be done on the porch, under an encouraging moon and a harmony of stars. Or maybe I would be in a MacDonalds, and the most good-looking guy I’d ever seen would come to my table, buy me a hot fudge sundae, and he give me a kiss when he walked me to my car. Ah, the kiss was exciting to think about as well. I had no idea what it would be like, but I knew it would feel wonderful. This quick pucker and follow-through would be my initiation into womanhood, somehow setting me apart from other girls who could barely fill a bra or who, as rumors went, practiced kissing by mutilating fruit. A rite of passage, a first romance, yes. But my girlish head had set itself upon one quest: I would be truly in love with the young man I first