Do You Remember Your First Kiss?
I certainly do! His name was Greg Lake (no – not the Greg Lake of Emerson, Lake & Palmer, lol).
He had medium brown hair cut in a boyish mop top style. His eyes were a deep green and nestled beneath eyelashes that were full and luxuriously long. His lips were perfectly shaped and formed in a pout. His breath smelled of bubblegum and his skin was lily white with the fragrance of Ivory Soap.
We were friends that spent all our time together. It was not unusual for us to go to the bathroom together. We shared everything. The day came when we were so close we knew each others thoughts. I leaned in towards him and he mirrored my movements. At first we touched lips gently. Then we embraced each other for a much longer kiss. It was my first time to kiss a boy. It was his first time, too.
No one saw us. Somehow we knew it was taboo and if caught there would be consequences. We had never seen other boys kissing. The only kisses we had ever seen were couples with a boy and a girl but we wanted to kiss each other. I have never forgotten that moment. I have never forgotten Greg.
This is a true story. I’ve often said I have always known I was different. In my early years the term “Gay” wasn’t used to describe homosexuals. The only terms used were “Queer” or “Faggot” and probably some other even more derogatory terms, lol.
This “Kiss” happened when we were 5 years old. We both knew it was forbidden but we often practiced our kissing in private. We would hold hands sometimes when no one was around. There was a tree house on the back of our property that my older brothers had built where we would hang out. We played house and I pretended to stay home and wait for him to come in from work. It is a lovely memory and such a revealing one.
Greg’s father was in the Army and one day he told me his family was moving to Germany because his father was to be stationed there. It broke both our hearts and we exchanged pen pal letters. We were always careful what we said. Our signatures always included two plus marks as a sign of our connection.
At some point after about a year the letters stopped and I never knew why. My mother kept the letters that I had long forgotten. After she passed away they surfaced during the clearing out of her things. I have them in my safe.