Again.

Her lips were so soft. And it was embarassing. At first, strange. Like when you try something boiled for the first time, and it takes you a few tries to actually like it. Worldly different than my "first kiss" in seventh grade with a girl I didn't really like--but she was the only other bi curious one, so obviously we had to kiss. This was charged with more tension, and I was expecting something that I knew wouldn't come.

On my twin mattress, desparately trying to ignore the fact that my parents were downstairs. We laughed into each other, pulling back to hide our faces--especially our lips where we had kissed. She was just as shy as I was, even though she started it (just like childhood--well, she started it--but now it was reverance more than accusation), but we grew comfortable.

These were the moments I looked forward to, but without a license and stuck at the mercy of my parents willingness to drive half-an-hour to pick her up, they came only one or two more times before we broke up. Again.

Ah, young love.

The next person I'm with will be a new first kiss, and I'll think, "Well, she wasn't my real first kiss." Because this new one will mean something different, something more charged with understanding. Just like seventh grade to tenth grade.