Most of my tween and early teens were dreaming about that first kiss. I would be lost in my own little world, thinking about how the object of my affection would suddenly pull me to him and give me the sweetest, softest kiss.
The drawback to fantasy worlds is that the real world often doesn't match up. However, I was bound and determined to make that first kiss count. That's why my first boyfriend in seventh grade never got to kiss me.
Oh, he tried. Poor Luis. The first time he tried was as we were about to get off the bus after a ski club trip. I could see my dad standing outside the bus, and as I sensed Luis leaning toward me I quickly said, "My dad is waiting for me" and bolted down the aisle. In school, a few days later Luis tried again as we stood by our lockers and this time I backed away, citing a school handbook rule, "We can't do that here! Principal Springpeace is right there!" I simply didn't want an audience of my peers to this momentous occasion. Luis left a break-up note in my locker some days later after he got wind of the fact that I was thinking of breaking up with him. Years later, when we were both in college and out of the early, dorky teen years, we had an opportunity to hook-up while hanging out at a mutual friend's house. Luis was drunkenly swinging me around the bedroom of our friend in an odd dance while we watched "Clockwork Orange." I was casually dating someone for the summer, which is the only explanation I have for not taking advantage of a situation where I was being wooed by a super-hot, well-toned Dutch-Hispanic man-boy. A friend watching the movie with us later told me that Luis had, in a drunken slobbering way, tried to kiss me again. I guess it was the kiss that was never meant to be.
The next guy I dated, Don, lived in Buffalo and was at too safe a distance to even consider kissing. The only collision we ever had was when I managed to fall and crash into him as he waited at the bottom of a hill for me when we went skiing together once. I didn't see him again after that.
Dave and I were two friends that could have lettered in flirting with each other, but when we dated things went south and we never did anything beyond holding hands during passing time at school.
And then there was Vince. Vince was that older guy. I met him just before my sophomore year in high school at a high school graduation party. We hit it off right away because I didn't mind listening to him talk and tell me all about his knee injury, the people we knew in common, and other random details. We started talking on the phone at first, but then he took me out for lunch, and then again a week later to see Faith No More, Metallica, and Guns'N Roses at Rich Stadium with a couple of his friends. I went away to a string camp at SUNY Fredonia for a week, but when I got back Vince took me to the State Fair with some co-workers. We got back home late. The sun had gone down and the neighborhood was quiet as he walked me to the door. I turned to give him a hug when, instead, he leaned in kissed me. I kissed him back, hugged him and said goodnight. Maybe not quite storybook ending, but good enough. Good enough to remember the date: August 3, 1992.
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By turns serious and playful, Sexography maps the coming of age, tragedy and rebirth of one woman's sexual self. From "making out" with imaginary Hollywood stars in her closet (and getting busted) to coming to terms with abuse, assault and rape, from embracing her curiosity enough to become a sex toy tester to accepting and dealing with her tumultuous past, Carly Milne paints a brutally honest - and, at times, amusing - picture of what it's like to learn about and experience sex in every sense of the word. From the earliest experiences in her childhood homes in Edmonton and Calgary, Alberta to present day Los Angeles, Milne guides readers through the sometimes troubled waters of female sexuality with a mixture of candidness and humor. Whether you've been through similar experiences or just know someone who has, Sexography will change your mind about why and how survivors survive.