In keeping with the recent theme, I thought I'd post this story out of my "fiction" page. It's older, so please forgive any redundancy resulting from the recent posts.

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Well, my first kiss was in 7th grade. I had read pretty much every Judy Blume book there was to be read, and was getting to that point in a pubescent girl's life when all she ever thinks about is acquiring that much treasured maiden smooch.

I had an annual pass to Knott's Berry Farm, and went every weekend with my best friend, Stephanie. We were, what they call there, "locals." Locals are people who basically hang out all day and do nothing. They don't really go on rides (except the slow makeout ones), or walk around, or even have fun...just sit in one spot, smoke, and wait to see if anyone can come up with something dangerous, stupid and illegal to do.

Their parents drop them off in the morning, and don't come back until midnight. You can do a lot of damage in that time. In an amusement park environment. This results in weird hybrid teenage-children that don't want to admit they could ever enjoy something as juvenile or uncool as a spinning teacup, or a swinging viking ship. It's all a big joke, right? Despite all their concerted efforts to disband any semblance of childhood, however, they're still kids. Why would they surround themselves with it, if they didn't secretly enjoy it? That's a difficult transition. But really, all that came later.

At first, Stephanie and I used to go on our own. We didn't really even socialize with the other local kids. In fact, we were kind of intimidated by them. We just sort of meandered around the park and talked about how cute those boys over there were, and did I think her boobs were getting any bigger. Every 30 minutes or so, we'd duck into the nearest bathroom to check our makeup and hair-- make sure we were at optimum level. There was something about her vanity that made me very impatient. I couldn't understand why one girl would want to see so much of herself.

Once, in Vegas, we were staying at the Imperial Palace. The columns in the casino there were covered in mirrors, and at about 100 feet intervals. Stephanie stopped at every single one...it drove me mad. The second day we were there, I snapped at her "Don't you ever get tired of looking at yourself?" A very big fight ensued, name calling included. I told her to "take a fucking hike". She thought I called her a "fucking kike" and stormed away. She wasn't even Jewish.

Anyway, Stephanie and I were walking past the soap box racers (which Knott's took out last summer) and singing what was a very popular tune at the time, Mr. Big's "To Be With You" when we spotted four dashing young men sitting at a bench just opposite of us. Now, in order to understand what happens next, you have to know that the chorus of this song goes, "I'm the one who wants to be with you/Deep inside I hope you feel it too/Waited on a line of greens and blues/Just to be the next to be with you."

As we neared, one of the boys stood up and advanced towards us. "I can do that," he said. To a girl my age, this was an unprecedented display of chivalry and debonaire charm. Steph and myself responded with appropriate giggles and remonstrances, but eventually conceded to speak with the audacious youth. [Oh, Mr. Darcy!]

His name was Jake, and he was an older man. A full 16. He was going to have a license soon. The boys asked if we wanted to go on the Log Ride (which, as EVERYone at Knott's knows, is an invitation to make out). I got so nervous I thought I was going to puke. Then Jake grabbed my hand and we started towards the man-made "mountain" that housed the flume ride.

As we walked through the line, I became more and more anxious, not knowing what to do or say. He held my hand all the way, stroking the soft, moist center of my palm with his middle finger and laughing vulgarly.

When it was our turn to board the fiberglass "log," Jake and I rushed to the coveted rear half and left the remaining boys to argue about who would board with Stephanie (who wasn't interested in ANY of the three) in the front section. We went up the first hill. Through the sawmill, with creepy ill-made lumberjack mannequins in perpetual motion. Stand up here, put your arm in the air, and trip the alarm with the recorded voice saying "Sit Down!" Boys always laugh at that. Around the bend, tense. Next the forest, deer and porcupine paralyzed onlookers with black laquered eyes. Then darkness. This is the part where you turn your head back.

Jake finds my mouth in the stillness, moves his lips around and I feel whiskers. "Relax," he says. I do. This is my first kiss. "That's better," as he reaches around to the front of my shirt and moves his hand slowly up. Tiny explosions in my cheeks, ears, and shoulders. This is my first kiss.

I feel him getting a hard on behind me, and try not to laugh. Up the long hill, this is almost the end. At the top, smile and have your picture taken. Flip off the camera. Plummet down. Squeal and dodge splashes. Fix your make up. Fix your clothing. Disembark. Down the stairs, look for your photo. Laugh, say how horrible it is. Give them your phone number, or take theirs. Feel torn between your innocence and the impending lessons that loom just over next year. Lose the innocence. Give it away. Never call. Even if you really liked him. Even if he said you were the nicest girl he'd ever met.

That was the first time, but not the last.

This is my first kiss.