A First Kiss is supposed to be pretty important, but I really don't know how to decide which was my first. Was it Mike Staffler in sixth grade in that capture-and-kiss game we played on the asphalt between the two churches? Like all the girls, I'd been longing for Danny Chastek to catch me, but he never would.
So the First Kiss must have been with Bill Handy, right? Or jeez, was it Terry Washburn?
The First Dance was on a Friday night after the basketball game. I was in seventh grade, it was the twist, and the song was I Want to Hold Your Hand. I don't remember who I danced with, but I know it wasn't a boy.
I'm happy to report, amongst all this not-remembering, that I do remember the first time I Went All The Way. Thanks, Steve!
The thing is, we don't ever know when we've had our last. The first might be a big deal, but surely the last is an even bigger deal. But when is it? And how will we know?
It's entirely possible that I had my Last Kiss twelve years ago, and that seems sad. And what about sex? Am I done? Have I had all the sex I'm ever going to have? Waaaah!
And no more dancing? I went to the club last night where you could find me every Saturday for about a decade. But that was another twelve or thirteen years ago. I had to peer through the years and the fat and the grey – but not the cigarette smoke, not these days – to recognize some of the other former regulars. There was a beat I like, but I couldn't find anyone to dance with and I couldn't go out on the floor alone. So I went home, undanced.
Undanced. Unkissed. Unfucked. So are these the Golden Years?