When it comes to kissing and dishing, I'm not your typical girl . . . well, just this once

By Emma Tippetts

Septmber 21, 2005 | Most people have multiple first kisses in their lifetime. It's an activity that is usually repeated over and over through the course of one's pre-marriage years. I like to call these types of multiple first kisses the re-kisses of your life. It is one of the few things most everyone agrees when you do it again and feel almost always feels like it's the very first time.

Most girls can recall each and every re-kiss with such precision and accuracy you'd wonder whether they took notes in the middle. Girls can tell you what they were wearing, what he was wearing, how he smelled, what she was thinking, what she thought he was thinking, the place, time, weather, music playing in the background, moon position and perhaps any star constellations in view. However, this fact is not all that unique considering most females would be able to describe the entire relationship in this fashion.

I'm not the typical girl. I don't remember girlish details; I don't rush home after each date to dish out on each detail with my roommates.

But one was different.

To be honest, I don't even remember how I met him (he doesn't know that of course). It could have been because I met so many people that week that I don't recall anyone specifically, or it could simply be that he didn't stick out in my mind as anyone worth remembering. For all intents and purposes, we'll stick with the former conclusion.

It was my first week on my own, moved out of my house fresh from high school, straight to Logan. I was living in Snow Hall and although all of my stuff was there and all of my pillows were in their designated spots on my hot pink bed and my clothes were perfectly lined up in a color-coordinated fashion, as they very well should be, I still felt like I was at summer camp. Brandon changed that: they don't make boys like him at summer camp, at least not the ones I went to.

Brandon was one of the many males that managed to peek into our apartment that first seven days of school, but one of the few that stayed for a solid 104 weeks. By the third week, Brandon and I were virtually inseparable; we walked to school together, ate together, watched TV together and studied together. Everything we did, we did it together. Now the time came when the inevitable was bound to happen. I knew I was going to be re-kissed any day.

On Sept. 10, after watching a movie at his apartment we walked the 21 steps to my front door. All five of my other roommates were sitting in the kitchen discussing something, which I'm sure was of utmost importance, loud enough for the entire building to hear, but they stopped when I opened the door. All 10 eyes stared at me and my new beau as we entered my bedroom and shut the door. I graciously thanked him for the evening, for dinner and the movie and wished him the best of luck at school tomorrow and was getting ready to bid him farewell when his hand grazed mine. I stopped and looked up as he wrapped his arms around my waist to give me a goodnight hug. His back was leaned against my bed, which worked out well because my twin-sized bed, pink comforter and pillows in place still, was placed on cinderblocks which put the bed at a perfect height for back support.

We had performed the goodnight hug ritual at least six times a week for the past two weeks, but this time was different. In one swift movement, his face went down while mine went up, Rod Stewart began to play on my Dell laptop and my head rested on his shoulder as he re-kissed me for the very first time. It was at least three glorious seconds before all at once we heard various pitches of girlish screams and my bedroom door flew wide open to reveal all of my roommates, still in the kitchen, now peering in to the darkened bedroom. Silence for exactly four seconds and then a burst of laughter from all parties. My roommates quickly apologized and left the room although the moment to continue re-kissing was long gone, Brandon was of course upset that my roommates had ruined the moment he had waited three weeks for, but he began to laugh with the rest of us before we had one more goodnight hug.

Brandon then left my apartment that night smiling so big he almost looked like he was trying to hold a hanger in his mouth, again walking past the entourage of girlish giggles in my kitchen. As the front door closed they all rushed into my room to hear every last gushing detail of the night, as girls oftentimes do.

But as I already explained, I'm not the typical girl, I don't remember those sorts of things.

OK, well maybe sometimes I do.

But that kind of stuff is important to remember, if girls didn't do it, who would remind the men how they swept us off our feet? Plus, you never know when you'll be re-kissed for the very last time.

NW
MS