I always say that my first kiss happened behind a couch at the age of four. All hands and knees and tips of the tongue.
We hardly knew what we were doing. But sensed, it was something to be done out of sight—the act of it, somehow illicit.
We crawled behind the living room couch, gathered our limbs beneath us, and with out palms pressed into the wood floor, leaned in, our tongues meeting in the open space between us.
One tip pressed against the other.
We were four and thought that was what French kissing was…a touch of the tongue.
It hardly seemed worthy of any fuss.
Or the subsequent fallout.
We hadn’t considered the window behind the couch. Had misestimated the prying eyes of our three older brothers.
How quickly they told our parents. And how quickly we were spoken to.
I remember little of what was said, but have a clear impression of how Matt and I stood to the side of his childhood home, each of our parents sitting on the swollen yellow of plastic patio furniture.
Matt and I are still friends.
(But I won't give you any hints to what it is).
**And for what it's worth, thank goodness kissing feels just as illicit and just as exciting--when it's done well. (Albeit, for quite different reasons).**