I found myself constantly playing catch up because I wasn't prepared for the changes that came with middle school. My first few weeks of sixth grade were filled with lies like "Oh, yeah, I love the band Sound Garden," "No, I can't believe that dude still plays with Voltron toys," and "Yeah, dude, Airwalk shoes are so lame." I said all of these things hoping that no one would notice that I didn't know the title of one Sound Garden song, nor had I ever heard what they sounded like. Also, before anyone came to my house, I scurried to hide all my action figures and comics in the back of my closet (behind my Airwalk shoes that I had begged my mom to buy weeks before the start of sixth grade).
Then there were girls, which I knew nothing about. I knew that I liked them. But that was about it. My first real girl friend experience was with your typical blue eyed, blondie. An 11 year old going on 13, which was what attracted me to her. That and her new body, which seemed to happen overnight. I knew when we met that it was time to grow up because, well, you know, she was mature. Or she appeared to be mature. It also helped she was one of the first girls that gave me sideways glances filled with blush and smile.
Those sideways glances turned into something more during the second semester of sixth grade. We began indulging in late-night marathon phone sessions, note passing, and handholding: all the signs that things were "getting serious." The whole relationship-thing was new for both of us. I mean, this was our first foray into the world of middle school romance. At that time, all I knew to do was what came naturally.
Not a lot of things came naturally for me. So I just pretended and followed her lead.
If she knew what she wanted from our relationship, she didn't tell me. I assumed she wanted what I wanted: a first kiss. Foolish, I know. But what's a middle school kiss-virgin suppose to think? I mean, I'm a guy and I have needs. Plus, I couldn't keep up the lies in front of all my friends--who, when looking back on it, were probably all lying about having had their first kisses. I had to lose my French kissing flower as soon as possible and she was the most valid candidate for that.
So after weeks of going to movies, and actually watching the whole movie, and seeing each other at parties and around school, she finally gave me the go ahead. Which I desperately needed. Under the guise of gentility, I refused to make a move until I was sure she was down for the deed. I was a coward. But I was a persist coward. And my cowardice paid off. The next time we would meet up for our pseudo date, I would score my first kiss. It would be my first first base if the baseball metaphors still hold true.
The next meeting just so happened to be at the roller skating rink Sparkles. Classy, huh? Near the end of a night filled with anxiety and roller skating, I half-walked, half-cornered her into the darkest corner of the skating rink, behind the lockers. And it happened. We kissed. Awkward, fast, invigorating, bad--it was a car crash of mouth, lips, and tongue. But it happened.
Not long after, we broke up. No second kiss. No real reason for it.
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