So, that there photo below is me. Not the overly cute feline. The girl pulling a stupid face next to her.
Mia, my purrfect furry friend
First's are difficult, aren't they? The first time you go to the shop on your own; the first time you go on a date with someone of the opposite sex; the first time you french kiss.
My first kiss was a nightmare.
I was dressed to the nine's (okay, I was dressed in a brand new French Connection t-shirt that read 'fcuk me' - shudder - and a grey, pinstripe skirt more suited to my mother than me), standing churlishly in the corner of a dark nightclub (it didn't really matter than it was only 7pm on a Friday evening - it felt naughtily late) refusing to look at the boy who had just come over to me.
I can't really remember much about him except that he was slightly overweight and smelt like raisons. And then all of a sudden his lips were on mine, his tongue (slippery, thick, violating, I thought of slugs and snails and puppy dog tails) firmly in my mouth, sloshing around for what felt like an hour (but was probably only 30 seconds).
And that was that. I had had my first kiss. As he went in for the second kiss (he had been slobbering over me for a lifetime, we both didn't enjoy it, why on earth was he going in for another?!) I turned to my friends. I remember thinking I had probably grown a bit taller, my boobs must be that much bigger - gosh, was he my boyfriend?!
He wasn't, obviously. I never even saw him again. And when I looked in the mirror I wasn't taller and my boobs were still little bee-stings under my t-shirt. But I felt different, liberated. I was finally a woman. Little did I know...
Thankfully, this first post was slightly less traumatic than my first kiss.
No comments:
Post a Comment