Give me a kisse, and to that kisse a score;
Then to that twenty, adde a hundred more;
A thousand to that hundred; so kisse on,
To make that thousand up a million;
Treble that million, and when that is done,
Let’s kisse afresh, as when we first begun.
~Robert Herrick, “To Anthea (III)”
He was 13, and so was I. We were babies. I was tall, curvy, and built. I may have been 13, but I was 5 ‘ 6″ tall, long flaxen hair, blue eyes, and size DD breasts. He was short, dark haired, and a bad ass. His gorgeous eyes, I fell into on a regular basis. He always liked girls like me. Thick. I remember he took me home to meet his mother and she was convinced I was 18.
He thought I was fast, cuz I’d kissed a 16 year old boy before. I thought he was adorable. With his backwards baseball cap and smart mouth. I gave him his first French kiss. On Huron Parkway, just before he was about to walk home. I can’t remember if we ever kissed each other again. Or how our story ended. I remember that kiss though. And so does he.
How do I know he remembers? Because we found each other again. 31 years later. We chat from time to time and laugh about how cool we thought we were. Now we’re grown. Have kids of our own. And we pray to God that they don’t do half the crazy shit we did when we were growing up.
I have often thought of him. How life had turned out for him. It took a mutual friend contacting me on good old Facebook to get us reacquainted. She said, “you know, his mom still talks about you showing up at his house with him and her being convinced you were 18.” I laughed, and told her, “I’d completely forgotten about that.”
I will never forget that kiss though. He was a great kisser. Even at the age of 13, he was a great kisser.