My first kiss wasn’t on my fifteenth birthday. It wasn’t with my girlfriend in my bed. It was on the last day of Reading Buddies in second grade.
I was partnered with a first grader, and I can’t remember her name now. We were all saying our goodbyes, and I felt this overwhelming want. I didn’t know that it was wrong, that it was taboo or abnormal. I had always been an affectionate child. All I knew was, I really, really wanted to kiss her. She was adorable, from what I remember. Blond hair, a big bow, a happy laugh. I pulled her over to the side, both of us giggling. Then I leaned down, and kissed her. I don’t think anyone saw, we were out of the line of vision of the PTA crowd. Later, circa third grade, my next door neighbor and I played doctor (with my new doctor set). I was listening to her heartbeat, and I wrapped my fingers around the tiny stethoscope to feel her pre-pubescent breast. She pushed me away and called me a word that I had never heard, and didn’t know what it meant.
“When a girl wants to kiss another girl. It’s a sin.”