My first (proper) kiss

My first (proper) kiss
My first kiss
Not the best. Not the worst. Is anyone’s? A bit like the first time one has sex, but I am definitely not going down that road on the narrative side of things.
So the first kiss I ever had. I was 15 and he was 22. Now even at the time, or at least shortly after, I did pause to wonder what kind of sicko would want to have some sort of relationship (? Ok I think he really did) with someone who was a mid-teenager. I don’t think he was a pervert though. Just a bit… well thick. Ok this is cruel, but it’s true. He was much less bright, much less knowledgeable than I was. I don’t say this because he was a train driver (you have to have your wits about you for that job) or because he lived at home (economical) or because of his penchant for nylon-heavy v-necked school uniform-like pullovers (which smelt nicely of fresh washing.) And the Bette Davies film thing might have given him brownie points had I been older.
No it was none of these things. He was evidently, lamentably just not that bright.
And I wasn’t remotely attracted to him, although I did quite fancy his
much, much younger brother who ogled me through the tea that his mum served up the one time I went over. My initial snogging session was the result of a kind of setting up by my sister, who, incidentally, later agreed with me that he was a sloppy kisser. And the whole incident only happened, on my part, as an act of revenge/self proving after a couple of friends buggered off to and allegedly did get off with guys, leaving me in the lurch, in a restaurant on my own for over an hour.
On my birthday. (All is forgiven by the way. It was a long time ago, but relevant to the narrative.)
As a consequence, I was fed up, self-esteem bereft (not that I had any self-esteem anyway) and my sister thought that she would cheer me up by taking me to the number one heavy metal nightclub that mid-1980s Sheffield had to offer - Rebels.
Or was it Revels? Always easy to confuse nightclub name with a chocolate one.
It was a classy place. Pictures of naked page three style bimbos on the walls, broken glass on the floor (not a style statement, just a consequence of drunken clientele, and presumably complacent staff) and lots of girls and guys (sorry lads and lasses) in pre-lycra days skin tight white jeans giving their brains a bashing as they banged their heads up and down to the likes of Meatloaf. It was sad, I knew then, but I suppose I was quite excited, doubtless cigarette in hand and Sally’s borrowed clothes on. I really don’t remember. Anyway ‘it’ (the ‘relationship’) lasted a week. There was only so much Bette Davies… or was it Joan Crawford? and fragrant navy nylon jumper that I could stand. (Actually one afternoon’s worth.) So I got my mother to break us up. She rang him and told him that I was too young for him, only being 15 etc. The next year he sent me a huge ludicrously tacky birthday card and rang me to see if I would go out with him now that I was 16.
I suppose it was sort of sweet, but I am not sure how innocent. I always thought it was the latter as well as the former, because I thought he was a bit dim, especially as I got a card the next year not to mention the big valentine cards with bears and hearts on them in the intermediate time, but perhaps given the turning-16 watershed and the ramifications of that in the eyes of the law, maybe not. I’ll never know.
I suppose that while I am on this train of thought, I might as well mention my best worst, chat up line. Not my chat up line, exactly, I hasten to add – I don’t chat people up - but the best bad one anyone ever tried on me…
I’d gone to a night club on a trip up north to visit my parents. Sunny Sheffield. I don’t do night clubs, and never really have (apart from erm Revels, I mean Rebels.) I mean what’s the point. Unless you really like dancing, there’s only one thing they are for, and that’s not having a nice chat and getting to know people. It’s getting off with people. Which I never did, not that I am sure that I wanted to really, but either way, standing with your arms folded tightly and watching your friends (were they really friends?) doing exactly that was the emotional equivalent of a stiletto heal grinding out the cigarette butt of the last bit of your soul or self-esteem. Wrong metaphor, perhaps. There was no way that guys would be wearing stilletos in Sheffield and I wasn’t into girls.
Anyway this time I was 25, so old enough to get into ‘Grab a Grannie night.” Yep. Passed the 20 mark, so a grannie. There was actually a couple on the dance floor that looked really old. Must have been in their 40s, and god so sad, strutting their stuff (how cruel we are when young), but apart from that no one over 28.
It was a strange evening. I had been dragged there by a friend, who’s friend we met up with promptly offered me poppers. Now I never get offered drugs, apart from pot – and who doesn’t get offered that – and I wasn’t sure what poppers did, so there was no way that I was going to accept any without doing research, and in the virtually pre-internet days that wasn’t going to happen even after the event. So for me, a bizarre start to the evening.
And then this guy came and sat down next to me, sidling up against me, and uttered the immortal words “You smell nice. What shampoo do you use?”
I was literally speechless for a moment.
I don’t remember what shampoo I was using. Why would I, and the inanity of the chat-up line would doubtless have obliterated any memory of my usual morning hair product anyway. But it was probably whatever Mr Sainsbury’s had on special offer at the time, being an impoverished post-grad student.
I think I danced with him, although I can’t be sure. It’s a long time ago.
Needless to say no snogging.