First French -Survived by Tara

WHO: JW​

WHAT: My first real kiss – like French kissing.

WHEN: 7th grade circa 1997

WHERE: The 8th grade graduation dance, Penn Valley CA

WHY: JW and I had been on-again-off-again for the whole year. We held hands and we talked on the phone. He bought me…ahem..okay, let’s be real. His mom bought me chocolates for Valentine’s Day. We were as serious as you can get in 7th grade. I was getting ready at my bestie Kristy’s house and we were so excited about our Delia’s velvet dresses and couldn’t wait to get our dance on with our boyfriends.

My First Kiss – Survived by Sarah

WHO: Older Brother Guy

WHAT: My first kiss

WHEN: Age 16, very early 2000ish

WHERE: A dark movie theatre in Grass Valley, CA. How very romcom of me.

WHY: 16, never been kissed, lonely, angsty, and desperate

THE DATE
Well, I’d never been on a date before this. I was in the throes of teen angst, and I was super awkward about boys. I’d never really had anyone interested in me, and I’d spent most of the last few years pining away over boys who in all likelihood had no idea I existed.

I was a late bloomer socially, and growing up in a small town with the same kids my whole life didn’t really help things. I don’t even remember when I got boobs, but it doesn’t seem like that helped things at all.

One of my very best guy friends moved to another country for our high school Junior year to study abroad, and his absence made my heart grow fonder. We started “dating” after he moved away, and we wrote each other pages and pages of letters. But I eventually realized I just loved him as a friend and we “broke up” several months before he returned.

I didn’t handle the whole thing very well. I made it much more dramatic than it was because I so desperately wanted to be one of those people who had relationship stuff to handle. And I hurt him in the process of finding myself and being selfish, which I’ll always regret.

To really twist the knife, I started hanging out with his older brother and his friends, who I had always been incredibly intimidated by and thought were so cool.

Maybe it was out of spite because I was being a shithead teen at the time, but for some reason I agreed to go on a date with Older Brother Guy. He had always teased me and tickled me and I was excited that he appeared to like me. He was also the first person who had ever asked me out on a date, so I obviously said yes. I was desperate to real life date someone. Anyone.

Older Brother Guy picked me up at my house and took me to a pizza place and paid. It was thrilling and terrifying. I felt like I was in a movie, even if I wasn’t particularly interested in the date I was with. And I had definitely lied to my mom about who I was hanging out with because I knew she would never have let me go.

After dinner he took me to the movie theatre he and all his friends had or still worked at. He got us in free and we got free popcorn and I swooned a little. A proper date!

We went to see Scream 3, the most perfectly unromantic date film. I sat there on edge the whole time, and it was only partially because I was terrified of the horror film we were watching. It was dark. Was he going to kiss me?

The end credits rolled and I was a little disappointed. No move had been made. Everyone was leaving. Maybe I’d misread the situation.

Then suddenly when the theatre was empty, he turned to me, put his arm around my shoulders, and jammed his mouth into my face.

It was weird, but I went with it.

He pulled back and said, “You’ve never Frenched anyone before have you?”

I blushed and shook my head.

“I can tell,” he said as he jammed his tongue down my throat.

I thought to myself, “Oh yeah? Well what does it say about your kissing ability if I’ve never kissed anyone before and can still tell you’re terrible at it?”

He drove me home and we never went out again, but I’ve never had any kissing complaints since. Douche.

Frenchy – Survived by Tara

Sidenote from Tara:
While lounging on the beach in Thailand with no wifi and about 4 coconut cocktail drinks in me, I passed out for some vacation napping and then woke up remembering three dates from my past. They had been shoved down in my subconscious only to have resurfaced after being drunk. And sunburned. Sigh.

WHO: Frenchy. He had some other yummy-sounding French name but I can’t remember it.

WHAT: I’m fairly certain it was an OkCupid date

WHEN: I think it was 2011 but my timeline lately has been way off.

WHERE: Night Life at Academy of Sciences, then a bar, then his house, then my house.  You would think these were 4 dates. It wasn’t. It was one.

WHY: He was French. He had moved here a year before and he oozed sexy man-ness. At least he oozed it via messages. He was sarcastic, tall-ish, muscle-y, and laughed at all the weird American words I liked to make up (man-ness, ginormous, Radicalturbobadness, etc.). He bought tickets to Night Life and met me at my apartment like a gentleman. He was older, about 32. (I love that I thought that was old back then, seeing as how I’ll be 32 in November.) He also seemed like a “real” man. I was stoked.

THE DATE
He met me at my apartment. I wasn’t ready yet, so he came in and asked for the wifi password to check directions. When I moved into my NOPA house in SF, my friend Ben Red was helping move heavy objects. He very seriously mentioned that we should call this The House of Ass, since all of us girls had rocking booties. When I installed the internet, the pressure to name it was so overwhelming that it became House of Ass. Six years later it hasn’t changed. I tell Frenchy the name and he straight up giggles. What manly man giggles like a school girl?

Anyways, we walked to Nightlife and had a good time. We headed to a bar, and he charmed me with both French phrases and French wine. All of a sudden it was 2am, the bar was closing, and I was in no shape to get home. He said he lived around the corner and offered to make me his “famous” grilled cheese, and then he’d get me a cab home. I’m a sucker for food and I was oddly into this guy. Nothing seemed wrong with him, so why not?

We step outside and he lights a cigarette.

Me: “I thought you said you didn’t smoke?”
Him: “I don’t, just one when I drink wine. My place is just over there.”

He kills the cigarette, we head upstairs, we eat grilled cheese, we find ourselves in bed a little later. Feel free to fill in the blanks. After a bit he lights another cigarette. We’re naked in bed, and he’s smoking.

Me: “I thought you said you only smoke one?”
Him: “I did, this is the same one from earlier.”
Me: “I watched you put it out.”
Him: “Nope, this is the same one. I saved it. Also, I’m French. I always smoke after sex.” He leans in to kiss me. “It’s a compliment.”
Me: “That’s a new cigarette. I watched you take it out of the pack and light it. I’m literally laying next to you.”
Him: “You’re just in a sex haze and aren’t wearing your glasses.”

I get up and gather my things. I’m sobering up and decide a walk home may suit me perfectly.

Him: “Look, I’ll put it out, don’t leave.”
Me: “No, it’s okay, I need to head home anyways.”
Him: “It’s 6am. Come on.”
Me: “It’s nice out, sun rising, I’ll walk.”
Him: “At least let me walk you home.”

We head out and as soon as we hit the street, he lights another cigarette.

Me: “Seriously?”
Him: “I promise you, it’s the same one. They are these long-lasting French cigarettes that last ages, kinda like me.” Giggle, giggle, giggle.

Now I’m officially over it. He was ridiculous. And he giggled again. This time like a weird old man.

We get to my house, and I struggle opening the door. I forgot that I had a pile of old costumes that I was going to give away blocking the door.

I turn around to give him a wave or half hug because the smoke smell is so gross, and he is LIGHTING UP ANOTHER NEW CIGARETTE.

Me: “I just saw you light that brand new cigarette. In the future when you say you don’t smoke, you are totally lying.”
Him: “Seriously, mon cherie, you need to wear your glasses. This is the same one from earlier tonight. Maybe you need to get your eyes checked again. Hey! What is that shiny green thing? Are you tossing this stuff? Oh! Hot pink tights?”

He starts pulling out my old Salsa costumes and old dance stuff, and proceeds to PUT THEM ON. Somwhere in the pile of sparkle he looses his cigarette.

I look at him wearing my tub top as a skirt, and he PULLS OUT A PACK OF CIGARETTES, takes one out, and LIGHTS A BRAND NEW ONE.

I just stare at him.

Him: “It’s the same one, I swear. I only smoke one. Can I have this stuff?”

I throw the bag and him out, slam the door and lock it.

Him: “So I’ll call you?”