Editor's note: In this weekly sex column, four columnists discuss their different sexual experiences relating to a common theme. Virgin Veronica runs every Friday evening.
A few dead animal heads were the only witnesses to my brief first kiss. So brief, in fact, I drove home half believing I imagined our lips touching.
Garrett was my first boyfriend. He officially asked me out after prom (despite the fact that he only told me my dress was pretty and not, you know, actually me). We held hands in the hallway at school and he drove me around in his big truck. But when it came to kissing, I was petrified.
I think Garrett tried a total of three times before finally asking permission to kiss me. Each of those first three times we lingered in our hugs outside my house, palpable pressure and suffocating expectation filling the air. Each of those first three times I pulled away, said a quick goodnight and bolted to the door.
I couldn’t understand these nerves. I wanted to be kissed SO BADLY. Romantic movie couples made kissing look fun. Why couldn’t I face the music and let this sweet sweet boy kiss me?
The deed was finally done when Garrett asked me flat out, “can I kiss you now?” You can’t exactly say no to that.
So standing (awkwardly an inch taller than him) in the dim light of his game room, hunted animals staring emptily at us from the walls, our lips touched for a flash of a second. It was over. And it was lame.
Also I was 17 years old.
I had high expectations, like fireworks or music only I could hear. Obviously my first ever boyfriend wasn’t some magical, sweep-me-off-my-feet romance. But I think our lack of chemistry lead me to shove sex, relationships and boyfriends off the table. So I guess it’s time to play catch up.