Pop my Cherry

It struck me not too long ago that I’d had my last ‘first kiss’.

It arrived in the form of a far too young man with an irresistible Irish lilt and a wit far too quick for one so young. Far too young.  And while the twenty years separating us seemed insurmountable to me, he seemed determined to show me otherwise. The flirtation went on many months, as did my ‘first kiss’ fantasies. He seemed to see right to my core. Surely his kiss would knock me flat. Finally one night we found ourselves alone together. The lateness of the hour, the moon. the stars. The setting was ripe. I turned in his arms. Pow! His face pressed so hard to mine I feared for my teeth. A hank of my hair twisted in his fist. Masher. Not exactly the tender face cupped in hand sweetness I’d anticipated. The look on my face must have been priceless. Knock me flat? You could have knocked my over with a feather. Maybe he was just showing off. Maybe he was nervous. Drunk. Crazy. Maybe I should stop making excuses. And maybe I should accept that I’ve had my last ‘first kiss’.