Editor's note: In this weekly sex column, four columnists discuss their different sexual experiences relating to a common theme. Committed Caroline runs every Thursday evening.
I’ve only kissed one boy. Ever.
There were no elementary school pecks or middle school make-outs in my childhood. In fact, by the time I had my first kiss I was 16 and downright impatient.
I had been dating this senior in high school for a few weeks. There had been three dates. There had been long, prolonged hugs on the sidewalk in front of my parents suburban home. There had even been forehead touching.
In some ways, our first kiss was as rom-com as they come. I was 16 and he was 17. He was my first real boyfriend, and our first kiss together was also each of our first kisses individually. He was sweet to me, and held open doors, and genuinely cared.
But our first kiss was sloppy and messy and bad.
Instead of the sweet passion I had expected, I felt way too much tongue. So I did what every teenage girl does and I called someone who could tell me if this was what kissing was.
“It was like he was eating my face,” I told my aunt over the phone.
She laughed, and I internally panicked. Could a great first three dates be ruined by a bad kiss? Was this a deal breaker?
My aunt said no.
“You have to teach him what you want,” she said.
I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of teaching this boy to kiss when I barely knew how to kiss myself. That is, until we started practicing. Kissing became more fun. I started to understand what I wanted and was able to tell him.
That first kiss taught me that sometimes my partner wouldn't give me exactly what I wanted. But before I could tell him what to change, I had to figure out what I wanted.
Our kisses now are better. Much better.