“I’m sorry, I’m kind of flaky”

I wasn’t kissed until I was 17 years old.

There, it’s out. If you don’t think those extra years of frustration and impatience take their toll and have an effect, then you were obviously kissed before you were 17.

The guy was AN. He was someone I’d known for years, through religious school and youth group, in that vaguely friendly acquaintance way. Physically, he was almost comically unattractive, but he had the charisma to make up for it.

It was a New Year’s Eve Eve party. We’d been flirting for months (cuddling at temple, long debates about the who the best president was) and there was a sense of expectancy the whole night.

He walked me to my car and wouldn’t really let me in until I kissed him. It was an awkward, halting interaction. In the middle of it I actually started laughing and blurted out “Wow, I’m lame.”

“Because you’re kissing me?”

I shook my head and said “No, no. It’s nothing” but I couldn’t bring myself to tell the truth, that it was my first time. I still wonder if he knows.

He told me he’d call me the next day and we’d hang out.

He didn’t.

I saw him a few weeks later, at another youth group event. He took me aside and said “I’m sorry, I’m kind of flaky” as he awkwardly stroked my hair. It was like a poor imitation of something he’d seen in a romantic comedy.

I laughed about it later with my friends, but a few months later we ended up making out on FX’s couch. I knew he was an asshole (and I knew he knew he was an asshole) but, being a hedonist and all, I opted for immediate gratification.