From Where I Sit

By Pat Spilseth, Columnist

The month of February brings up thoughts of Cupid, chocolates, roses and romance. Naturally, memories of my disastrous, totally unforgettable, but oh-so-memorable First Kiss come to mind. Was that guy Jimmy or Billy, Mac, Johnny or Charlie…I remember the sloppy kiss, but don’t remember who I was in love with at that time.

I thought about love at least seven times a day, in a very pure fashion. Girls I grew up with were sixties virgins who attended church every Sunday morning, Luther League and Friday night teen hops where we indulged our not so pure thoughts. Through the grapevine, we heard that boys thought about love too, but in a different manner.

I’d dreamed about that “first kiss” for months, even years. Romance consumed me.  For hours, I lay on my bed, spinning shiny black 45s on the portable record player. Bobby Darin, Annette or Johnny Mathis, my favorite crooners of the era, sang about young love, sweet kisses and vows of devotion. Over and over I’d hear in my head “Only You”… I was addicted. I believed every word of those romantic lyrics.

I was sixteen! What else does a teenage gal think about?

It was the era of white bucks and blue suede shoes, hoola hoops and circle skirts. We got sweaty twistin’, dancing the stroll and doing that energetic bunny hop. Pat Boone was the churchy crooner whose handsome looks flirted with my imagination. He didn’t gyrate around the stage with those pelvic moves of Elvis, which “rattled my brain” and upset all those teachings I’d learned at the Lutheran church.

The Young Romance section at the Carnegie library held titillating young love thrillers. Reading romances under the covers teased my dreams and fueled my imagination. Those romance novels were my literary diet for a year or two until Mrs. Serrin, our “shush – DON’T TALK” librarian, directed me to what she considered were better-suited books, mysteries and tales of career women like Sue Barton, in her cute white nurse uniform.

I was a late bloomer, but I’d been planning the kiss scene, rehearsing it in my mind since I was thirteen. My first kiss would occur on prom night, May 25, 1965. I’d have a tall, handsome date. My gorgeous white satin dress would show off my tan shoulders. The orchestra would be playing “Chances Are” as we danced under the spinning ball in the moonlight at the pine paneled pavilion on the lake.     

I practiced knee kissing, but I preferred plastering passionate kisses on the bathroom mirror. Knowing Mom would be sure to notice, I remembered to spit-polish the glass when I finished test-smacking with my new Revlon lipsticks. My favorite, Kiss Me Quick lipstick, performed perfectly. It was slippery and slick; others were too greasy. I didn’t want my kisses to glue-stick the guy’s lips.

I’d learned lots about kissing, making out as it was called, when my love-sick friends had sleep-overs in our Baby-Doll pajamas and wire mesh hair rollers. We’d discuss kissing and tales of the local tart. Word was going around was that she “put out.” Sitting behind her in class, I spied a hickey when she lifted her long, blonde, greasy hair…so embarrassing!

Springtime meant prom dates and all-night parties. While I was primping for the ball, dressing in my white tulle gown, my prom date dove for a baseball and sprained his ankle. Grimacing in pain, he arrived at my door limping, balancing on crutches.

This was supposed to be a night of dancing and romance. Not for me.

Gamely I bunny hopped without my partner, laughing with guys and gals decked out in prom finery, beauty parlor sprayed hairdos and Sunday suits. White or red carnation corsages were pinned on our panting chests. My heart was thumping thunderously as my little white gloves absorbed some of the sweat from my nervous palms. Though I continued to hope for a good time, my date was soaking his foot and yawning. He only wanted to go home and sleep.

My dreams had choreographed the expected good-night kiss. My date would hold my hand as we walked the steps to my house. Anxious, I knew we’d probably be inhibited because Dad had bolted a glaring porch light above the back door. However, I’d be able to see where his mouth was and could aim perfectly. I’d close my eyes, once I had my aim, sigh and lean into his arms. My moves had to be just right, timed perfectly. I’d waited so long.

As he escorted me to my door, his limp became more pronounced. Then he tripped! He fell against my face with a wet kiss; his sweating hands clutched my waist and pinned me against the protruding doorknob. Painfully, the hard knob ground into my bare back.

Tongue rubbing my bruised teeth, I stammered a quiet “good night,” and lurched into the house. I burst into the bathroom to wash out my mouth. Where is that Listerine?

Thinking about kissing was much better than actually doing it.

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To contact Pat, email: pat.spilseth@gmail.com.