Please indulge me as I add my words to age-old explorations of first-love.
Those lips: so soft, unlike anything I could ever imagine. Feathers, butterfly wings. Her hair sends me to a spring garden of roses, magnolia, and jasmine. My body discarded a chrysalis, as if my pores glowed–airborne on a summer breeze, the world at my feet. There was no school, no kids, no teachers. Space and time did not exist.
Two lightning bolts meeting in silence. I swear, there was voltage in my spine.
This was it. My God, I thought I had to wait ’til college. A real live pretty girl has told me that she thinks I’m something special, not the loser who will never amount to anything. And this was Alison Buttkicker—guys would sell one of the gonads to a swamp creature for her kiss.
It lasted somewhere between 20 seconds and a minute past eternity. When I landed, I was a foot taller and a million miles from lonely. The only thing was, while my soul sang of unfettered rapture, my brain froze.
Arms at my side, eyes closed (Good thing, my eyeballs were bouncing around like Wily Coyote); how can you be limp and still stand? She pulled back a few inches as this semi-conductor returned to the world of the semi-conscious.
I, of course, being as debonair as James Bond, said this:
Na, actually, I said, “Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, Shhhhiiitttt.”