Tongue Hockey

My first kiss was from a knight. I was 10. We were on a date – with 500 others – at that famously romantic establishment: Medieval Times. The yellow knight and I locked eyes. I can still feel them penetrating my soul. Then, as if in slow motion, my knight reached down into his pouch, pulled out a yellow rose, kissed it, and threw it directly to me. I’m still surprised this knight is not my husband…

My second real kiss happened during spin-the-bottle. The boy I kissed had just eaten a popsicle. When our tongues connected, it sent goosebumps down my body – just like jumping into freezing water. Until my next kiss, I believed that all kisses were similarly chilling…

My first real kiss was with my boyfriend freshman year of high school. I think we both knew what was coming when we went downstairs to “hang” in the dark, 1960s knotty-pine-covered basement. We stood beneath a Big Mouth Billy Bass singing fish. The kiss lasted all of two seconds. There was no tongue. His lips were surprisingly squishy. The next day at school I found out he told his friends that the kiss was “good” but hadn’t lasted long enough. A few days later he dumped me…

During an especially anxious period of my life, I could not make out with anyone without contemplating the extraordinary number of germs being passed between us: 80 million to be exact.

Published by imworriedmytherapisthatesme

I'm a history-PhD-turned-stay-at-home-mom of three. When I'm not microwaving Trader Joe's meals for my kids, breaking up fights and wiping butts, I like to paint and write. To cope with the endless hours I'm spending with my son doing virtual school, I've abandoned my gouache paints for the more portable, less messy tried but true, paper and ink. While he learns to read to 20 floating heads on his screen, I sit on a tiny chair, at a tiny table pretending to be a productive adult.

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