My First Kiss

Mona Gable looks back at an early love. PLUS: An open thread forum where you can recall the first kiss that mattered for you...

From First Kiss, 1890, by William Adolphe Bouguereau. Via Wikimedia Commons

Readers,

This week we have an essay by Mona Gable in which she looks back at her first kiss—and her first kisser. It’s a sweet piece, and you’ll find it just below this section. ⬇️

Coincidentally, one of the writing prompts I use frequently in workshops is “Write about the first kiss that mattered to you.” So this topic felt like good fodder for a Friday Open Thread, in which I invite all of you to comment on your similar experiences. In the comments please tell us…

In the comments please tell us…

How old are you? Tell us about the first kiss that mattered to you. Who did you share that kiss with? Why did they matter to you? How did the kiss come about? Did it lead to more? Answer as many or as few of these questions as you’d like! (If you’re commenting, please also do me the favor of hitting the heart button ❤️ for algorithmic purposes. Thank you.)

Me, I’m 60, and as was the case for Mona Gable, the first kiss that mattered was one I received from a boy I knew in elementary school and junior high, one I had a big crush on. At a party where games like Spin the Bottle led to pairing off in dark corners, my crush grabbed my hand and led me to the back yard, where we smooched and smooched, mechanically turning our heads back and forth, until our lips were red and swollen.

My crush was wearing the blue-and-white gingham party shirt he wore to all the boy-girl parties, and I was wearing a green-and-white gingham blouse from Chwatzky’s Department Store that I’d gotten to match it.

When we came up for air, he looked at me discerningly, and I wondered if he was going to “ask me go out”—which in those days meant becoming boyfriend and girlfriend. My heart pounded in my flat, 13-year-old chest. What was he going to say?

Finally he spoke. “I hate the color green,” he said, then led me back into the house. The next day, I threw the shirt in the garbage.

Despite how it ended, it was a thrill to have had that moment with my crush. For the next year or so I held out hope we’d someday make out again, and that it would lead to something more. But it never happened.

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Mona Gable’s essay begins here. ⬇️

Robin Olimb/Getty Images

My First Kiss

Mona Gable looks back at an early love.

by Mona Gable

I bet that many of us remember our first kiss, however awkward or exciting or disappointing the experience turned out to be. I certainly remember mine. I think in part because as a girl whose father was remote and often away from home, and whose three older brothers mostly ignored or belittled me, I was aching for male attention.

And so it was in 5^th grade. His name was Jamie Phalen. I have forgotten many things about my childhood in the 1960s, but I have not forgotten Jamie. He had stiff brown hair and large green eyes and big muscles in his arms and a gravelly laugh. His skin was a lovely nut-brown. He smelled like the beach, a mixture of salt and sea air.

While most boys were like my brothers—jocks who played Little League and later became high-school football stars—Jamie wasn’t into sports. He was what I now recognize as a free spirit. We were crazy for rock bands like The Beatles and The Stones, and Jamie played the drums. His father was a doctor like mine, and he lived in a two-story house with huge windows on San Diego Bay, near the harbor where the big naval warships streamed in and docked, and across from the Kona Kai Club. When he wasn’t at school, Jamie spent hours swimming in the bay. Like many kids in Point Loma, I think he also had a tiny sabot that he maneuvered between the boats and ships crowding the water. Jamie loved the freedom and adventure that growing up by the ocean gave. I did, too.

I am trying to conjure the feelings I had then, so many decades ago. But I’m pretty sure my attraction to Jamie amounted to this: I was a good girl, an A student, and actual Girl Scout, while Jamie was handsome and wild. He was incapable of sitting still. When Mrs. Evans, our dour, middle-aged fifth grade teacher, would ask a question, Jamie never raised his hand. If she called on him he’d grin and say he didn’t know. He was the first boy I was aware of who didn’t care about school, who was rough and liked to fight. On the slippery dirt field where we played kickball and softball, the girls wearing shorts under our wool pleated skirts, Jamie was fierce. He threw hard and sure, and he could hit almost any runner with a kickball from anywhere on the field. I can still see the soft golden dirt rising up when he knocked some poor kid to the ground.

I have forgotten many things about my childhood in the 1960s, but I have not forgotten Jamie Phalen. He had stiff brown hair and large green eyes and big muscles in his arms and a gravelly laugh. His skin was a lovely nut-brown. He smelled like the beach, a mixture of salt and sea air.

I was just beginning to be aware of my own sexuality, enhanced by my mom’s antics. Those were what I like to describe as “the Mad Men days,” when affairs in my parents’ circles were as common as frozen dinners. My parents had slept in separate bedrooms since I was little because my mom was a handful, though it was hardly her fault. She’d had surgery to remove a brain tumor, and it had permanently damaged her bright and sweet nature. But I was 10, and knew only fragments of her complex medical history, so she alternately frightened or appalled me. I tried to avoid her, which was hard because we shared a bedroom.

Since my father was openly seeing a nurse in his practice, often spending weekends at her house in Normal Heights—yes, that was the name of her neighborhood—my mom felt she had every right to go out and meet men. On weeknights, she’d call a cab and head down to the bars on Shelter Island. Places with Polynesian names like the Bali Hai, where the waitresses wore grass skirts and served tropical-colored drinks with parasols and slices of pineapple.

I dreaded those nights. It didn’t matter to her if I had school the next morning. She went out anyway and would stumble in the bedroom door at 1 or 2 a.m., banging against my bed as she made her way to the bathroom, reeking of alcohol. I always woke up. I’d lie in bed, pulling the pillow around my head, willing myself not to hear her.

It was amidst this family backdrop that I found my first love, Jamie. When I think of him now—the way he conveyed his attraction in bold glances across the classroom, or took my hand after school and walked with me to Canon Street before we went our separate ways—it makes my heart flutter.

As proof of his love, he gave me a St. Christopher medal. This was the ultimate sign that we were “going together.” Did we talk on the phone? We must have, though my memory stalls on what we said. The phone was our lifeline. We were utterly dependent on it to communicate when we weren’t at school. Unfortunately, I didn’t have an extension in my bedroom, unlike some lucky girls I knew who had a pink princess phone next to their beds. I had to use the black rotary dial phone in the kitchen. This didn’t exactly lend itself to intimate conversations or confessions. My brothers often tried to eavesdrop. In this way, I learned the art of discretion, a skill that serves me to this day.

The first kiss with Jamie unfolded, like a photo in a darkroom, very gradually. In 5^th grade, our class handed out Valentine’s cards, notes, and those pink boxes of sugary pastel conversation hearts with the sappy sayings on them. “Be mine,” one begged. “All mine,” said another. “Forever.”

Valentine Day’s was a big deal because it was basically a popularity contest. We’d have small brown paper bags we’d decorated at our desks, and then each student would go around and drop their Valentines inside. I often felt sorry for the kids who didn’t get many, or whose cards went curiously unsigned. In the interest of nostalgia—and now of this story—I wish I’d saved Jamie’s.

Not long after, we arranged to see each other after school. One of the defining characteristics of this era is our parents rarely cared where we were or where we went, as long as we came home in time for dinner. No one picked us up after school. No one dragged us off to the next scheduled activity or practice. Our childhoods were blissfully unmonitored in that way. We walked or skateboarded or rode our bikes everywhere.

Our parents’ attitude was also key to furtive assignations. Just down the block from Cabrillo Elementary School, was a shopping area, with a pharmacy, a candy store, a liquor store, and a pizza place. One side of the street had an underground parking garage, right below the boutique where I sometimes bought my matching skirts and sweaters. That’s where we headed. Did Jamie initiate this furtive rendezvous or did I? Absolutely it could have been me. I was not a shy girl.

Jamie and I practically tiptoed down into the garage. I remember being nervous but excited. We looked around, scouting places we wouldn’t be seen. Then Jamie led me over to some cars parked at the farthest wall and I positioned my back against one. I don’t remember the make or model. But let’s just say it was a Mustang for verisimilitude’s sake.

That momentous afternoon, Jamie and I practically tiptoed down into the garage. I remember being nervous but excited. We looked around, scouting places we wouldn’t be seen. Then Jamie led me over to some cars parked at the farthest wall and I positioned my back against one. I don’t remember the make or model. But let’s just say it was a Mustang for verisimilitude’s sake. Jamie looked into my eyes and smiled. His green eyes grew large. I smiled back. And then he very slowly leaned in, wrapped his arms around my waist, pulled me close and put his lips on mine.

It was the best kiss ever. Soft, warm, and clumsy. We opened our mouths. I tingled all over. We kissed that way, my arms around Jamie’s neck, my body pressed against his, for god knows how long. Like a first kiss should be, we were oblivious to everything else in the universe. I never wanted Jamie to stop.

I kissed many boys when I was young, and have kissed many men in the years since; some were better kissers than others. A few were memorably awful, aggressive, and selfish. Fortunately, my husband happens to be an incredible kisser, which is partly why I married him.

And while many kisses in my past remain forgotten or vague, I will always fondly remember that first sweet kiss from Jamie. Wherever he is, I hope he remembers it, too.

Mona Gable is an author and writer in California. She writes about travel, social justice, culture, and whatever intrigues her. Her latest book is Searching for Savanna: The Murder of One Native American Woman and the Violence Against the Many. Check out her newsletter, Travels with Mona Gable.

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Okay, your turn.

How old are you? Tell us about the first kiss that mattered to you. Who did you share that kiss with? Why did they matter to you? How did the kiss come about? Did it lead to more? Answer as many or as few of these questions as you’d like! (If you’re commenting, please also do me the favor of hitting the heart button ❤️ for algorithmic purposes. Thank you.)

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Big thanks to Mona Gable for sharing her story. And to all of you for reading, and commenting kindly and thoughtfully. Oldster has the best comments section around!

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