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amulFor some reason, while trying to build my WLAN, I was reminded of this time back in high school. I was cuddling with a female friend on the couch, it was very late after a very fun night of Improv and Late Night Pseudo-Drag Racing (John Hughes style), finally ending with the two of us, just utterly exhausted on the couch. Her head was in my lap and I was stroking her hair, and she'd always been a bit of a tom boy, but with the moonlight on her cheek and her hand on my chest she suddenly seemed very feminine indeed. Completely out of character for me (at the time), I asked her, "What would happen if I tried to kiss you right now?"
She responded by describing a night of intense passion with all the skill and wit and passion of an intensely brilliant, intensely lonely girl, followed by describing the very busy Rest Of The Weekend we each had planned, so busy that we wouldn't be able to run into each other again, "and then on Monday, we would see each other in class, and even though neither of us would want it to be, it would be awkward."
I was so horrified at the idea that things might ever be awkward between us, that I didn't try to kiss her.
But you know what? The next Monday?
It was still awkward.
There is a lesson in that, somewhere.
Months before my first kiss, My First Love and I met at Great America. Her church youth group was going, but we had connived to separate her from the Christian masses, had allies helping her use this holy time to consort with pagan boys. We were young, and I, at least, still unfettered with any real understanding of human sexuality. She....understood, but perversely, hers was (as with so many women in my life) an understanding arrived at with no gentility.
We rode rides and ate ice cream, and she made a thousand tiny tests to see if I was just like all the other boys. I was not, by virtue of my inexperience, and she found herself drawn to that, but did not know why, just as I was uncomprehending in my attraction to her. I knew I wanted to be closer to her, wanted more, wanted one more inch, although at the time I had no notion of what More there might be, had not yet learned to whittle my vast acres of needs into the tiny inches I ask for.
I just liked her, and wanted to bask in her light.
Several times, she would turn suddenly to face me, and all the world would swing wildly around us. My heart would race as she looked in my eyes for the briefest second, unable to meet my gaze. Then she would reach out and place her hand gently on my cheek, and slowly draw her eyes back up to mine.
Each time, when her eyes would once again lock with mine, I would lean my face into her caressing hand, close my eyes, and with my hand clasp her hand to my cheek. Each time, as soon as my hand came to hold hers, she would pull away and run off.
Years later, a dozen boyfriends later, she told me that if I had only mimicked her, placed my hand on her cheek in return, she would have leaned forward, and I would have had my first kiss months earlier, might even have had my second kiss earlier by years.
To this day, when someone reaches out to me, I try to reciprocate, despite the urge to bask in the sense of Being Reached For.
She responded by describing a night of intense passion with all the skill and wit and passion of an intensely brilliant, intensely lonely girl, followed by describing the very busy Rest Of The Weekend we each had planned, so busy that we wouldn't be able to run into each other again, "and then on Monday, we would see each other in class, and even though neither of us would want it to be, it would be awkward."
I was so horrified at the idea that things might ever be awkward between us, that I didn't try to kiss her.
But you know what? The next Monday?
It was still awkward.
There is a lesson in that, somewhere.
Months before my first kiss, My First Love and I met at Great America. Her church youth group was going, but we had connived to separate her from the Christian masses, had allies helping her use this holy time to consort with pagan boys. We were young, and I, at least, still unfettered with any real understanding of human sexuality. She....understood, but perversely, hers was (as with so many women in my life) an understanding arrived at with no gentility.
We rode rides and ate ice cream, and she made a thousand tiny tests to see if I was just like all the other boys. I was not, by virtue of my inexperience, and she found herself drawn to that, but did not know why, just as I was uncomprehending in my attraction to her. I knew I wanted to be closer to her, wanted more, wanted one more inch, although at the time I had no notion of what More there might be, had not yet learned to whittle my vast acres of needs into the tiny inches I ask for.
I just liked her, and wanted to bask in her light.
Several times, she would turn suddenly to face me, and all the world would swing wildly around us. My heart would race as she looked in my eyes for the briefest second, unable to meet my gaze. Then she would reach out and place her hand gently on my cheek, and slowly draw her eyes back up to mine.
Each time, when her eyes would once again lock with mine, I would lean my face into her caressing hand, close my eyes, and with my hand clasp her hand to my cheek. Each time, as soon as my hand came to hold hers, she would pull away and run off.
Years later, a dozen boyfriends later, she told me that if I had only mimicked her, placed my hand on her cheek in return, she would have leaned forward, and I would have had my first kiss months earlier, might even have had my second kiss earlier by years.
To this day, when someone reaches out to me, I try to reciprocate, despite the urge to bask in the sense of Being Reached For.