First Iss

I'll never forget my first kiss. We were both 18-years-old, almost 19-years-old. A little late for my first kiss, but it wasn't her first kiss. There's nothing like the first kiss. I even remember her name, Kathy. For the life of me, I don't remember her last name, though.

I remember that once I kissed her, I was in love, puppy love. I never felt anything like it. It was a powerful feeling. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. All I could think about was Kathy.

I wrote her name everywhere, a thousand times a day. I doodled her name on all my papers and books, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy.

As if it happened yesterday, I remember my first kiss, even though it happened a lifetime ago. Never having kissed anyone before, except for my Mom, my aunts, and my grandmother, I didn't know how to kiss. All I knew was that I wanted to kiss this girl because she was pretty and she had big tits. Did I mention that she had big tits? She had big tits.

I remember when she kissed me, she stuck her tongue in my mouth. Eww. Gross. That was new. That was foreign. That was French.

I didn't know what to do. At first I was grossed out when she stuck her tongue in my mouth. Yet, as soon as her experienced tongue touched my virginal tongue, I felt an excitement that I hadn't felt since my Dad bought me a Lionel train for Christmas, when I was barely old enough to know what a Lionel train was, never mind to even want one.

I was slow to mature sexually. Most guys have their first kiss years before their 18th birthday, but not me. Too busy playing sports, baseball, basketball, and boxing. I never realized that all my sporting interests began with a B, until now, baseball, basketball, and boxing. Weird. I was never into football or hockey, maybe had they been called bootball and bockey, I may have shown an interest in them. I did play bocce, though, that was fun and I was a bowler, too, now that I think of it. Maybe if golf was named, bolf, I'd be a bolfer, too.

Anyway, there was this girl that I tried picking up with my friends. I was just out of high school and home for the summer, before going away to college. Going on 19, by the time I was in college in September, I had celebrated my 18th birthday. Kathy was the same age, almost 19-years-old. I was only a month or two older than she was.

I don't know if it was because my friends were more aggressive than I had been in trying to get her phone number, or the fact that I hung back and allowed them to make fools of themselves, or maybe I just more appealed to her, but she lingered closer to me. Smiling and making eye contact, and making some light and pleasant conversation, she showed more interest in me than in them.

I was a good looking boy back then. Everyone said that I looked like Ricky Nelson. Eventually my friends tired of being rejected by her and found another victim to chase after, which is what we did most of our free time, picking up girls. Actually, with all of us being so immaturely obnoxious, we annoyed them, until they gave us their phone numbers, which in most cases turned out to be phony phone numbers.

Kathy and I walked and talked for miles and a couple of hours. Then, when I volunteered to walk her home, she gave me her phone number. Fearing rejection, I remember it took me a monumental amount of courage but I asked her out.

She said she babysat for her neighbors on the weekends and I figured, instead of saying that she had to wash her hair, it was just an excuse not to go out with me. She said that her neighbors went out every Saturday night. She said she babysat for them because she needed the money for school. She was heading off to college in September.

I remember now, back then, we didn't go out much on Sundays. Back then, nothing was open. Everything was closed, bars, stores, shops, restaurants. It was dead. Even the movies and bowling alleys were closed on Sundays. About the only thing open was church. It was a time that everyone stayed home, ate Sunday supper together, and visited with family and/or the neighbors. A time before cable TV and DVD's, we watched movies on one of the three channels we had on our black and white television.

I called her that night and the next few nights following. We had made a connection, albeit a telephone connection. A time before cell phones, the Internet, and caller ID, even answering machines, I was relegated to hanging around my house waiting for her to return my calls. It seemed that every time I called her there was no answer. We seemed to always just miss one another. It was frustrating.

By the time I finally got her on the line, I was excited. It was an excitement that I had never experienced before, maybe because our connection wasn't instant and immediate but delayed by the lack of technology. By the time I finally talked with her, the sexual frustration that I felt that turned to delayed gratification was allowed to simmer longer, before heating to a boil, especially when I thought about kissing her and fondling her big tits.

She was a nice girl from a nice family. Her father was an engineer or a scientist, something that required that he needed a college education. He may have worked for General Electric, I don't remember. I do know that her family had much more money than my family did with my Dad being a Postal worker, a mailman.

Nonetheless, she invited me over that Saturday to babysit with her. I remember it was so long ago, a time before jeans and sneakers were popular. No Reeboks, Nikes, or Adidas sneakers, just white PF Flyers were the only sneakers that I remember kids my age wearing.

When I went to where she was babysitting, I wore a dress shirt with dress pants and black pointy toed shoes with Cuban heels. I'm dating myself. Now that I remember, we dressed better then. Now, everyone wears sweatshirts or tee shirts with jeans and sneakers.

It doesn't matter if people go on a plane or appear on the Price Is Right, they all wear jeans with sweatshirts or tee shirts and sneakers. What happened to Americans to make them not care what they look like and take as much pride in their appearance as we had back in the 50's and 60's? I remember Donna Reed with her white gloves, June Cleaver with her pearls, and Lucille Ball always with makeup, while all the men wore suits, sport coats, and ties. Today, women are just as sloppy as the men.

Finally, I arrived at the address she gave me. The parents of the two children she babysat for had already gone out for the evening and she had put the kids put to bed. We were alone. She was the first girl that I had ever been alone with, except for my cousins, but that wasn't the same. I didn't feel the same feelings towards my female cousins, as I felt for her.

We sat on the couch watching television and talking. I remember prime time TV had cartoons, Flintstones, Jetsons, and Top Cat, no sex and little violence. Rawhide, Gunsmoke, and Bonanza were big back then. It was a simpler time.

I remember she kissed me. I didn't have the nerve to kiss her, even though I was dying to kiss her and she surprised me by kissing me. Yet, once I felt her soft lips pressed against mine, with her arms wrapped around my neck, she parted my lips with her tongue. It was incredible. I remember being embarrassed because I had an immediate erection, one that tented my pants and I lowered my hand, so that she wouldn't see that I was excited.

One kiss led to another and another and soon we were making out. She allowed my hand to feel her breasts. She had a C cup. I remember because they filled the palm of my hand. They felt so big and so firm. Her breasts were the first breast I ever felt.

A time before the padded bras that they have now, I could discern her nipple pushing against my palm as my cock pressed against my underwear and pants. I was so very sexually excited. Only, I was still a virgin and she was, too.

Nonetheless, she allowed me to feel her breasts through her white blouse and white bra and I was happy with that. This was our first date, if you want to even call it that. She was the first woman that I not only kissed, but French kissed, and hers were the first tits that I ever felt.

She left for college before I could arrange to see her again. By that time, I was already dating another woman, Margo, who gave me another first, my first hand job. I should write that story, too, while it's still fresh in my mind.

There are some firsts that you'll never forget and I've never forgotten the first kiss that I had with Kathy. I wonder where she is now and if she remembers me. Maybe not. I have a feeling that I wasn't her first kiss, but she was mine.