My first kiss has forever left a stain in my botched memory. I am known to have a mind like a sieve so the unwavering ability to remember every lasting detail is really rather remarkable, particularly considering I was 12 years old. Sadly, the kiss itself was distinctly unremarkableâ Phillip, the son of my parents’ friends wily academics from our village was cusping on puberty, with a painfully awkward temperament.
Together with a group of friends we would go cycling after school, ride around the bomb dips in the forest, me wearing god-awful glittery jelly shoes and early-90s denim ensembles. Inevitably the day came when our friends dared us to kiss. Simon was the instigator, voice pitching between boy and broken: â˜Go on, I dare you. Ki-iss, ki-is, ki-ss,’ and before I knew it, they were all chanting, like a chorus of wicked children.
I stood there, frigid and frozen, with Phillip edging towards me like a nervous cockerel. I closed my eyes, waited, and there it was a big wet tongue plunged into my trembling mouth and swished around like a torrid whirlpool, lips stuck together as if we were two goldfish. French kisses were all the rage back thenâ Or so we thought.