His
name was Micah. I always loved that name because it was so different.
And
so was he from me.
We
grew up in the same Chicago suburb which was rather large but neighborhoods
were small. The kids you’d run into on the street were the ones you’d likely
run into the next day, if you really wanted to, because 6 blocks isn’t far away,
especially not on a bike. And that’s how four 15 year old girls, heading into sophomore year, met a large group of 16 year old boys from
another high school.
The
boys went to Timothy Christian, a Christian Reform school, in our
neighborhood. The families generally kept to themselves so even though we lived
within close range, our paths never crossed since we went to different grade
schools. Growing up, I truly believed we were considered "taboo" to the TC kids.
Well,
there’s no way to stop teenage boys and girls from meeting when they have their
minds set on this. Straddling our bikes on a street corner, we talked. Cops
would come by and kindly ask us to scatter. So we’d move to a different
one.
One
sure thing was the girls longed to kiss the boys and so did they. I’m not
certain which side was more inexperienced; us or them.
Being
late bloomers, the girls had heard plenty of stories about kissing. Experienced
girls warned us that some boys kissed like Hoover vacuums and others so sloppy
they didn’t know what to do with all the spit. None of this sounded appealing however,
one by one, my girlfriends began to pop their kissing cherries.
Micah
and I were still just talking but knew deep down we’d do this together. Everyone’s
ready at different times.
In
the fall and back to our respective high schools, weekends remained the same.
The group got together because the other girls were “hooked up”.
It
was just before Halloween when we gathered in George’s garage; his parents
allowed boy/girl get togethers, and Micah asked if I wanted to go inside. Before
we’d only been alone rather by default. This time, he was asking me to be ALONE.
Liking him, a lot, I went. Sitting closer
than I ever had to a boy on a couch, he asked what I’d like to do. Having only
one thing on my mind, I blurted, “Let’s make out.” Instantaneously, his lips
pressed softly against mine; his breath smelled so sweet. Kissing for what
seemed like an hour, he suddenly asked, “Can we French kiss?”
I
was so far into the moment to say anything other than “OK”.
It
was the first “real” kiss either of us experienced. I was 15 and he, 16. And it
was completely opposite of hoover-like or sloppy with spit.
It
was one of the sweetest, most gently intense feelings I have ever experienced
in my life.
To
this day, I credit Micah for my immense love of kissing someone special.
