The first girl I ever kissed
was in a bathroom at a dance.
I remember my heart pounding because I was finally telling her,
finally saying something to her about how I might feel,
which was this jumble of confusion and uncertainty and
just wanting to try.
I had been thinking about her for awhile,
because to me, she was the only one who could settle this.
I remember her smirk, and how she kissed me hard,
and my head spun and the world fell away
and it was an ecstasy I hadn’t known before.
She slipped her knee between my legs
and I knew what desire was.
Someone came in and she quickly turned around,
and we pretended like I was helping her with her dress.
I left that night in a whirl of guilt and bliss and questions.
That was my first kiss that was beyond stupid teen pecks.

The first boy I kissed,
(and again, here I mean kissed more than half a second)
he was tall and handsome and wore black jackets.
We got caught kissing in school once.
He said he loved me. I think he believed it.
(But his promises started to feel more like threats.)
I remember being alone with him in a room,
and as we were kissing,
my mind wandered back a year.
I remember I thought of the girl kissing me,
and my mind said,
“wasn’t that better?”
I could hardly stand to kiss him after that.

The second girl I ever kissed,
I knew.
It was a love I hadn’t known before. It made the others seem faint in comparison.
We had so little opportunity to be alone,
but I was addicted to kissing her when she let me.
(She eventually broke my heart.)

By the third (and fourth and fifth) girl,
It was all I knew.

There was never another boy.