Brandon was my first kiss. I was 13 and it was under this bridge in the north part the town I grew up in. He was somewhat higher than me on the social ladder, smoked cigarettes, weed, and had a penchant for things I considered absurd at the time but would later realize he was just a typical boy in his early teens.
I didn't want to at first, though I feel like I should have. I remember the sensation of it being like someone put a worm in my mouth and wouldn't let me spit it out. I went along with it because all the elders were saying,
"You never forget your first kiss!' with a twinkle in their eye.
I guess you could say they were right, but when I write this I feel far from sparkly. I was a right of passage if anything.
Brandon and I ended up dating, and within a couple weeks broke up because I was a "prude" for not sleeping with him. He told the kids at school and some of them started calling me a lesbian as I walked down the hallway.
I do things on my own time and I stand by my convictions. For my family members, the twinkle in their eye could have been their start of a fairy tale for me where I would come home feeling pretty and light, as if I were waking around on a cloud.
But for me, it was the day I learned to trust myself. I think I got the better end of that deal.
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