My father once told me that I was looking for love in all the wrong places. I never told him then what I thought about his words, though I had a lot of thoughts on that idea, but even more so now.
No doubt that I went on a long quest to understand love.
The concept of love completely frustrated and confused me as a child. Just when I thought I had it figured out, it turned upside down again.
When I had a daughter later on in life I wondered if I would explain all of this to her. Would I explain it to my sons? Would I teach them to protect their hearts and keep their bodies untarnished? More importantly, would they understand love from the get-go and be able to avoid all that comes with the confusion of not really knowing?
I did and I didn’t. Perhaps I’ll tell that story another day.
My first kiss was a disaster, I wish I could say otherwise.
He was a farm boy from a little town on the outskirts of my hometown. A town known for one of the smallest post offices in all the land; basically a blip on the map, if that. I had recently turned 15. We went on a double date to the movies.
He ate orange Starbursts.
I never wiped my mouth after we kissed.
About an hour later, my mouth dried with crusty orange Starburst residue about an inch and a half surrounding the area around my lips.
I got spanked with a tree branch after I confessed to my step-mom and father that I had lied. I never went to my mother’s that weekend. I spent the night at a friends AND went on a date with a boy. I kept the kissing part to myself.
I never went out (nor kissed) that farm boy from a little town again. I did however become one hell of a picky kisser. Maybe because the stakes were so high for my first kiss. Maybe it was the memory of crusty orange Starbursts. Maybe it was the consequences of the whole endeavor. Maybe it was a combination of all this and more.
I didn’t love that farm boy from a little town, but he played a small part in my story and to this day I’m not a fan of orange Starburst candy.
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