Spring 1972

The first attempt missed its mark. You got my left nostril and I hit your chin. The dark made us even more clumsy and awkward than normal. The second, however, was much more successful. I was surprised at how soft your lips felt as I squashed them against my teeth. You pulled back, laughed, and then urged gentleness.

I was confused. Up until that moment, my experience had been limited to what I saw on telly, mainly watching old Elvis movies. He was my hero and he when he kissed all the girls; it was hard and lingeringly so. Nevertheless, I followed your instruction and was glad I did.

The third time was bliss. This was the one where I felt like we melted into each other. I was giddy, faint and something else I couldn’t identify then. It lasted forever and in some part of my mind, we’ve never stopped.

Years later, I heard an awful Hall and Oates song with the line ‘your kiss is on my lips’. I knew exactly what they meant.

And while we never kissed again beyond that one summer, I still know.