I think I wrote this when you guys were telling each other about your first humping.
This kind of thing doesn’t happen to girls like me, which is why I like telling the story.
The kiss I call my first kiss is not, in fact, my first kiss. The very first one was when I was about 5 years old when a boy in my class just leaned in and kissed me out of nowhere. I hardly think that counts. My second (and more) kisses were with a neighborhood boy who always smelled like Rice-a-Roni and who always wanted to play Getting Married so we would have to kiss. Ugh.
My real first kiss was with a boy who lived on the farm where my friend kept her horse. His name was Randy. He and his brother Larry would follow us around at a distance and do goofy stuff to try to make us laugh. After a while we became friends, and pretty soon they started hanging out with us whenever we were there.
One day my friend started to tease me because she realized I had a crush on Randy. “He’s never going to like you. You’re fat. He’s skinny. Fat people go with other fat people.” I told her she was being stupid. “Fine,” she said, “if you think he likes you so much, kiss him before we leave today.” Well, FINE, I said. I will. No I won’t, I thought. Maybe we won’t see him. Yeah, that would be good.
We walked around the barn. He was right around the corner, and had obviously heard every word we’d said. And so had his brother Larry, which was evident by how hard he was laughing.
Randy was sitting on some scaffolding. I climbed up and sat next to him. Larry and my friend were below, taunting us.
“Sorry.” I said.
“It’s just the stuff that she said made me mad. I know you’d never like me. I’m sorry.”
“I do like you.”
And he kissed me.