Perhaps I should provide a little background, so you dear reader can understand how one might develop into a blushing lush such as I. Given my aforementioned late arrival to the concourse known as intercourse, it should come as no surprise that my entire romantic history might define me as–loud whispers now, don’t be discreet–a late bloomer.
Don’t get me wrong: I am a healthy girl who developed at all the right times, and perhaps even a tad early. For example, I don’t think I grew more than an inch since 6th grade; I was the tallest kid in all my classes through elementary and middle school. And I’m pretty sure my bra size hasn’t changed since 9th or 10th, either; since then my cups have always been quite enough, thank you. But I didn’t have boyfriends or play spin the bottle in middle and high school. I didn’t really have crushes on any boys–or girls, for that matter. I was, for lack of a better term, a tad asexual. Boys didn’t preoccupy my thoughts, nor did the same sex. They didn’t have cooties. They just weren’t interesting. And I knew I was attracted to males because, in typical tween fashion, this girl had mega-crushes on the two muscled leads of Fast and the Furious fame (R.I.P., Paul)… and on Chad Michael Murray. Suffice to say, I was a wee misguided during my teen years.
So it was that, at the grand ol’ age of 18, I kissed a boy for the first time ever. I’m talking a real, honest-to-goodness kiss, not one of those brisk pecks or platonic smacks an aunt or grandma could have given. It wasn’t cute or planned or even remotely romantic, either, because I was self-involved teenager who had her own shit to handle and I was completely oblivious to male attention. Unlike many of my peers, the pursuit of sex was not on my teen agenda and so I didn’t have any–or anything resembling it! Hence my late blooming kiss.
It happened like this: There’s a club in my hometown that allows 18s+ in after 2am on Friday nights. It is the oldest standing gay club in the city, and it also happens to be one of very few places for underage youths to party (woods and public parks notwithstanding). So every Friday at 2am the club clears out all the booze and all the queers and, once free of illicit substances, the underage kids line up behind the queens and dykes for re-entry. In spite of the annoyance of kicking everybody out for 5 minutes just to let the same adults plus a bunch of young kids back in, the club stayed mostly full until it closed at 4am. Revelers, in typical fashion, would often pay the small cover to dance their drunk off before crawling home or into the beds of sexy strangers. (Since coming back to my hometown, I too have become one of the revelers, guilty of shaking my luscious booty to gay beats–right alongside all the high school babies, the ghosts of my futures and pasts mingling together in one sweaty, sticky crowd of nubile flesh.)
But I digress. So it’s a Friday night during my senior year of high school and my friends and I have stayed up late to go to the only club in town that will have us. We dress up and drive over, drinking terrible whiskey straight from its plastic bottle the entire ride, and then tear down the piss-stained alley to the line that curls around the corner of the club into the noisy street. We pay the cover, go in, and make our way towards the middle of the floor.
Roughly half hour in, I notice an enthusiastic group dancing a few bodies away, and they are clearly older college students. One of them, a lanky boy wearing sunglasses is dancing in my line of sight. Despite how ridiculous it is to wear shades inside a darkly-lit, strobe-filled club, I find it amusing and I think he’s cute. In response, I assume a rookie flirting tactic: I eye him a bit and give a sly smile, just to see if he will notice me. And he does. So, in spite of the terrifying prospect of failure, I decide to woman up and ask him if he would like to dance. And he agrees. And we dance. And it’s obvious he’s straight so this is a very different type of dance for me. He’s not gay and he’s definitely not a creepy older dude trying to pretend its innocent to hit on a teenage girl (we’ve all seen it, and the collective cringing should have caused Mt. Rainier to explode by now–just sayin’). I’m not sure what to do next, so I start talking at him. I get his name, give him mine; I ask questions about what he does, where he’s from… you know, the standard first-year-of-college conversational muck.
I’m feeling pretty confident by then, like super jazzed ’cause he totally thinks I’m pretty, you guys, and so I stop talking and focus instead on the dancing. And by dancing, I mean that my ass on his lap like it was stitched there. Oh yes, even back then I was self-aware enough to recognize that my big ass booty was a blessing, and damn could I shake it! (Shakira was right; these hips do not, cannot possibly, lie).
Now, I know what you’re thinking: he must have a huge boner by now. And he definitely does, cause there’s really no way of hiding that when a girl is rubbing her ass all up in your junk. I don’t care the circumstances, the body just responds. So I take this invitation to mean I should turn around to face him and grind with him a bit more pointedly, and that’s when it happens. I look up, and my arms are loosely around his waist, and he slides his fingers along my jawline and leans down to kiss me.
It happens quickly and wasn’t what I expected. I mean, why is his mouth so wet? Am I doing this right? And what the hell am I supposed to do next? So I pull back a little, but he’s got me and he’s not letting go. And, okay, so it’s a bit wet but maybe I need to be more patient and ride this out, see what happens, so I give in. We make out, tongues and all, in full view of everybody in that club. I don’t know how long we do this but at some point I’m feeling really aware of and awful for our obvious PDA so I stop kissing back and pull away. We keep dancing, and then it’s closing time and the lights come up. I give him my number and I leave with my friends, all of them giggling and gawping at me like they just walked in on a very public re-enactment of Deep Throat (which, to be real, probably wasn’t too far off given the club’s reputation).
As we all traipse down the alley to the pancake house a few blocks over, I can feel it starting. My body is warm, and my skin feels like a current is running through it. And despite the loving teases from my friends and my insistent replies that the kiss wasn’t a big deal, he was just some guy who I’ll likely never see again, I find that I can’t help but keep touching my lips, feeling the huge smile spreading across my face as I rewind the night over and over, feeling it again and again.
And that, dear reader, is a how a lush is born.
Cheers for now,
The Blushing Lush