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How I kissed a boy
Wensday, March 14, 2001 x 3 - 21:04

Remember how I wrote an entry about the first time I had sex, and then I burned my underwear in effigy afterwards but it really didn't mean anything? Of course you don't remember that, since nobody read my diary then. Not that many or any do now. Okay, here is the link.

Here's a nother story with a shallow ending:

Once upon a time, in the spring of my senior year of high school, I kissed a boy.

Me and my main squeeze Mr. Pooh had been acquaintances for a few years, and recently had become friendlier and friendlier. Suddenly I realized that I *liked* him. I was hesitant to start a relationship with him because 1. I wasn't sure he would do, 2. I was kind of scared of boys, 3. he had just broken up with his girlfriend and I didn't want people to think he'd broken up with her because of me, and 4. a few years earlier he had worn anklets. I don't know if that's what they're called. The socks that end right where your shoe ends. You know, they don't even reach your ankle. Apparently these socks, or booties or whatever they were (I'm tired. I can't think. Lexical gap or something.) were cool among male freshmen when he was a male freshman. The point is, these socks did not flatter his calves (I'm so fickle) and I vowed never to become involved with someone who wore such socks and had calves like he did.

Anyway, this was three years later (He was a junior. I'm a year older than him, that's why I always feel so old.) and he had been wearing normal socks for a while. (I've totally distracted myself talking about his socks. This is not a story about Mr. Pooh's fucking socks.)

(I've also distracted myself with all these parentheses.)

So I realized I *liked* him. Mr. Pooh and I had been subtly flirting with each other for a few weeks. Then one night I just got sick of waiting for him to make a move on me, so I made a move on him (move by Kelsi=putting my arm through his).

So later that night we had a makeout session in his truck on the street outside of my house. (The kissing was actually not that good. He kissed like a washing machine.) I knew it was the start of something big.

So I went inside and looked at myself in the mirror, knowing that I had just kissed my first *real* boyfriend. In Victoria Holt books (which are NOT crotch novels, by the way. They are mostly quite prim and proper novels, except for some rather scandalous ones she wrote towards the end.) the heroine always looks at herself after interacting with (having dinner with or talking to) the hero, and she always looks different, like something *significant* had just happened to her.

My cheeks were not flushed and my eyes were not sparkling. I looked the same.

It is now exactly seven years minus 11 days and 53 minutes (seriously) since then. I still look the same. Except my butt. That's a bit bigger.

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