I was 14, I think. We were hanging around on the grounds of Coláiste Bhríde in Clondalkin, a big gang of us, slagging and messing and supping from a shared coke bottle of dolly mixture that one of the lads had made by siphoning off shots from every bottle in his parents' booze cabinet. One of his friends asked me if I'd "meet" him. I said I would, so his friend told me to go around the back of the school in five minutes. I did, and he followed me around a few minutes later. I stood with my back to the wall, unsure where to look, what to say, what to do with my hands. "Will you meet me?" he said and I nodded mutely, then he kissed me for 40 minutes straight. I breathed through my nose, hoping that my breath wasn't too loud, that my mouth wasn't too wet or my tongue too dry, that I was getting it right and that it would be over soon. He put his hands on my hips so I put mine on his shoulders. His tongue went round and round and round in my mouth and my face ached with the effort. I opened my eyes, just the once, just to check that this was happening, and then squeezed them shut again before he could open his and see me. "Thanks" he said when he was finished, and we walked back around the corner, hand-in-hand until we were within sight of our friends. He dropped my hand then and I walked back over to the girls, who were cold and impatient to get home. The skin around my mouth felt dry and when I rubbed it, little flecks of dried saliva came away on the back of my hand.
Inspired by Pierce and Kitey's Sunday Assignment: The particulars of your first kiss, though written (like so many of my assignments) in a hurry over lunch on a Monday. Suggestions for further assignments welcome - I need some direction.
Inspired by Pierce and Kitey's Sunday Assignment: The particulars of your first kiss, though written (like so many of my assignments) in a hurry over lunch on a Monday. Suggestions for further assignments welcome - I need some direction.
