Looking through old stuff only causes trouble...

I've been looking through some old documents I have saved and came across some that were funny and some that were embarassing... the one that follows is both of those. I wrote it shortly before I met Frik about my first "make out" experience. It was a class assignment to write about an event that changed my life or something like that, and this had just happened days before the assignment was given. Much to Frik's dismay, my feelings about kissing are still pretty much the same.

Without further ado, here it is:

My First Kiss
I made it all the way to 19.  Not intentionally, not accidentally, I just made it there without being kissed.  Lots of girls I knew had never been kissed—virgin lips.    They were waiting around, wondering what it felt like and hoping it would happen to them.  That’s what made me different from them.  I never cared.  I enjoyed holding hands, walking together, or cuddling during movies, but I seldom daydreamed or hoped or even thought about whether or not he would kiss me.  At the end of the night, we would say goodbye without anticipation.  That “perfect moment” never came, but I went back to my room and fell asleep just as content as ever.  My only thoughts about the future kiss I yearned for so little: whenever it came, it would come—probably with some guy who I had dated for a while, someone with as little experience as I had.  I never expected a perfect, romantic moment, but I thought I would tolerate it.  That’s all I thought about it.
Then one night I sat on the couch reading magazines in German with some guy named Nate…or Craig.  I could barely remember.  I had only met him 3 hours ago.  He didn’t speak German, so he really just followed along while I read, pretending he knew what the articles said.  At curfew, I walked him out the door.  We hugged and then it happened: the moment I had never sat around waiting for.
He turned his head towards mine a few times and looked at me with his eyes half shut like he wanted to eat me.  I resisted, but he finally came at me with his mouth hanging open like a trout right after you take the hook out.  He put his tongue on top of my lips that I kept pursed together.  I didn’t know how to react.  Not only had this never happened to me before, but I didn’t like him or even know him well enough to like him.  I tried to avoid drinking his saliva, which felt surprisingly thicker than mine with a slightly syrupy consistency, similar to the texture and thickness you get from sucking on a cough drop, but without the flavor or the menthol cooling action.  For the most part, I succeeded in my endeavors to avoid fluid exchange, but in the process, his spit spread all over my face, coating the skin between my nose and the cleft in my chin.  He rubbed his rough yet squishy tongue over my lips, trying to shove it between and into my mouth.  He finally stopped, and I put my head down on his shoulder and tried to stifle a chuckle that had built up.  I thought it was over.  I thought I was safe and free, when he apparently realized that he had failed in his attempt to woo me by licking, so he tried again.  This time I just stood still.  When he finished, I wiped my face off on his bristled jawbone and retreated to my apartment, laughing.
My roommates, who watched us through the peephole, tell me that kissing feels good when you actually like the guy and that I should look forward to the next time. I don’t think so.  In fact, any physical contact between a male and female causes a gagging reflex in my throat—Even contact that I used to appreciate or enjoy.  The next day, Nate/Craig came over and tried to snuggle with me on the couch.  Besides my fear the entire time that he wanted to assault me again with body fluid, I got the chills every time he ran his hand up my back or rested it on my shoulder—not good chills.  Bad chills.  Your mother just fell and broke her back chills.  That’s when we talked and decided to end our one and a half day attempt at a relationship.
I can’t even watch movies anymore where people kiss.  I felt especially nauseous while watching the scene in “Spiderman” where Mary Jane kisses her super-hero stalker while he hangs upside-down in the pouring rain.  Wet bodies touching seemed less romantic than ever.  That will never happen to me again.  No, I have vowed never to kiss again.