Short Kiss

I like to tell people that I had my first kiss when I was ten. It was during recess, in the backyard of the school, on top of a bar where kids hung upside-down by their knees or just perched, looking over the swings and monkey bars. It was the week before winter break and one of the girls was moving, I think to California. Her friends were a bratty group of girls, some of them already popping pimples, whose recent discovery of cuss words made bathrooms and playgrounds alike game to the foulest string of words imaginable. 

Her name was Stella and her blonde hair was turning brown. Mine was about the same color, and being in fifth grade, she was slightly taller than I was. But this didn’t bother me yet. All the girls were taller than the boys in elementary school. Except Jess -- but his father was a basketball coach. 

I think that even though she hung around the cool grown-up girls in the class, Stella felt a little behind. She had a slightly submissive nature to her, a people-pleasing aspect that made her gentle when you caught her alone. But in groups she was vicious. If her friends came up with some cruel punishment for one of the weirder girls, it was Stella who initiated it or carried it out. I think she was scared the others would notice her too much. Anyway, still being ten, none of us had had our first kiss. Being blond-almost-brown haired and the fastest kid in the grade made me popular. They egged each other on, and finally Stella broke off and scrambled across the playground, her friends giggling behind her. 

She could tell she was being watched, and put on a show of it, tossing her shoulders back and yanking her hair up in a ponytail. She heaved herself next to me, glanced sideways at her now shrieking friends, and asked, “Hudson, can I kiss you?”

Most boys my age still would have found this appalling, but I was mature for my age. I shrugged, looked to the side and presented my cheek to her. “Sure.” A moment passed and I felt a damp pressure on the side of my cheek. She threw herself back as if the kiss tasted sour and was about to hop down when one of her friends, the meanest one, demanded she do a real kiss. They huddled around us and started chanting, making everybody turn their heads. A hot flush stung my face and I was about to jump down -- the teachers were beginning to notice and call out to us angrily -- when Stella gasped, grabbed my chin, and pulled my mouth in her direction. I must have closed my eyes because I don’t remember anything, just the smell of dust and wood chips from the playground floor, the cold dampness of winter air, and her hair falling against both of our faces. Then the teachers came over and made us get down, and put both of us in time-out.

It was a good story for a while. Middle schoolers appreciated it most, and it became an anecdote my friends sometimes brought up around the lunch table. But by high school it had become something of a joke. Part of this had to do with the impression that I took the kiss too seriously, but most of it was the fact that, after seventh grade, I didn’t grow an inch taller. 

I ended up going to one of the biggest party schools in the country at a stature that put me below eye level of most grandmothers. My first kiss, legend of a mid-sized city playground, became a running joke. A high school friend who became part of the people I hung around in college spilled my secret and it became a running bit that outlasted our academic careers. 

It became imperative that I ran with this joke rather than countered it. There was simply nothing I could do. Platform shoes still put me below the average woman’s height. I had dating apps, and I went to parties and bars and cafes, and time and time again a girl would elbow her friend and they would turn to look at me, faces filled with so much pity it became horror, or so much horror that they looked as if they pitied me. 

I tried keeping up with Stella, but we were the generation just behind cell phones and she didn’t give me her address. She wouldn’t have anyway, but I’d known her since kindergarten and remembered her last name, so one day I looked her up on social media and found her. She looked just the same, prettier and more grown-up, and dyed her hair blonde. She went to a school in California. I thought about sending her a message, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

The last kiss I’ve gotten so far -- I say so far as a manifestation of hope, twenty-six and still counting the days -- was my freshman year. We were at a house party, with the lights off and purple strobe spinning, and I sat on the arm of a couch because when I sat like that it was harder to see how short I was. My best friend Matt, who was over a foot taller than I, was across the room talking to some girls. One was as tall as he was and clearly felt interested in him, leaning towards him and making such violent eye contact with him she was nearly leering. As a wallflower to many such events I am proud to admit that I’ve become somewhat good of a people watcher. Matt was speaking to the person at her side. She was so short and the room was so crowded I only caught glimpses of her -- her hairline, a defined collarbone. Matt caught my eye and a slow, sideways smile slipped onto his face. With a casual nod he beckoned them to follow him and made his way towards me across the crowded room until the three of them surrounded me, blocking the rest of the party.

“Having fun?” he said with a lazy smile. The tall girl glanced over him at her short friend, who was looking at me with an unreadable but pleasant expression. He held both hands out as if he were presenting me to them. “This is Hudson,” he said seriously, “Lil’ Huddy. This is Alex --” the tall girl gave me a tiny wave -- “And Maria” -- she smiled.

I think I said something noncommittal, like a hey, but so confused with some other equally meaningless words that I might have just made a noise. Thankfully, the music was loud enough to cover the sound.

Matt was explaining something to them. “Right here…” I heard him say, “His first kiss. Ever.”

“Ever?” Alex asked, unironically appalled. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” I answered unblinkingly. Years of practice made me handle these situations quite well. 

“I had mine when I was fourteen,” Maria said. “I wish I hadn’t. I did it just to get it over with. I did everything just to say I did it.”

“Everything?” Alex asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Hudson,” Matt interrupted, “How would you feel if one of these fine young ladies had the honor of being your very first?”

“Not my very first,” I said, pulse quickening. “I’ve had my first kiss before.”

“Fifth grade doesn’t count,” Matt said, seating himself next to me. “I’ll even take a picture. We have to commemorate this moment. Ladies?” He turned to them, eyes drooping. 

“No thank you,” Alex said, wrinkling her nose. She obviously was not pleased by the entire situation, gave Matt a pointed glance and turned her body away, trying to show him she wanted to go. He didn’t even look at her. He raised his eyebrows at Maria, who looked at me with the same look as before, pleasant and politely interested in the same way a parent might look at a child’s drawing. 

“Do you want a kiss?”  she asked plainly. Her voice was lower than it looked as if it would be, and she crossed her arms and tilted her head as if I were a bother. Her eyes, warm and small and bright and faintly lifted, looked directly into mine. I involuntarily swallowed.

“That’s the spirit,” Matt said, clapping her on the shoulder. “Team player.” She gave him a sideways glance and suddenly I realized that this was probably one of the girls he was messing with. Matt was one of those men who proudly claimed a history of going after crazy women, but this one didn’t quite look like she matched the description. Her hair was a normal dark brown color, glazed gray from the purple lights, and she had no irregular piercings or tattoos that I could see. But she was certainly not basic, and had the straightforward air of somebody completely emotionally removed from a situation. It was hard to tell whether her nonchalance came from a high self esteem or a low respect for the people around her. But she must have been unstable to some extent, because without saying or doing anything else and ignoring her friend’s cry of shock and disgust, she thrust her face towards mine, surveyed my face entirely with one slow sweep of her eyes; her eyelids flickered and nearly closed, and suppressing a smile she moved forward and pressed her mouth against mine.

At that moment I was ten years old again, balanced on a dirty metal bar at noon, eyes wide open. Matt shouted and started applauding, all while Alex backed away with more expressions of shock -- “Maria, no, what are you doing,” while Maria herself leaned back and shook her head as if she had just taken a shot. I realized she was quite drunk, and this probably contributed to the hard, bright way she looked at me. Her expression was glass-like. She blinked blearily and smiled nervously at me and I realized I was staring at her with my jaw slightly open. Matt slapped me in the back and said, “Now wait, do it again so I can take a picture --” and this time when she kissed me I closed my eyes. The flash went off, and imprinted a faint outline of Maria against my lids. Above all things, I remember most of all her outline, a dark pink shape set against a pool of red.

This time when she stood up she backed away, grabbing Alex’s arm. Her face transcended pity and veered on concern. Matt reached to her and showed him the picture, laughing idiotically. She gazed at the picture for a moment, then looked back at me, bewildered. 

“You’ve really never been kissed before?” she asked. 

“No,” I said simply.

She gaped. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? What for?”

“I didn’t mean to be mean,” she said. She wasn’t slurring her words, but they certainly didn’t sound clear. “I wasn’t trying to trick you -- I mean, prank you or anything.”

“You’re fine,” Matt drawled. “He enjoyed it. He’ll cherish it forever.”

For the first time I felt a flush creep onto my face. “I don’t mind,” I said as normally as I could. “You’re okay.”

I felt as if I had become almost perfect at hiding my shame, but the look she gave me then was so full of pity and shame that I felt as if she saw right through me. My face reddened and I was grateful for the dim purple lights. Alex, laughing slightly, tugged at her arm and pulled her away. They disappeared into the crowd.

Matt smiled down at me. “Feeling good, little buddy?” I nodded blindly. The picture was still on his phone, and I took it from him and held it up for a closer look. It perfectly captured the couch I sat on, with my feet just resting on the floor. Alex’s horrified and laughing face on the side. Maria was crouched down almost on her knees, one hand half-cupping my neck and the other balancing herself on the armchair. Her face was covered by her hair so only the faintest outline of her lips were visible, but it was there. My own face was perfectly still. Its features were so starkly outlined they seemed to jump out. I could see each individual blond lash against the freckles on my face. The flash made me look very pale, bloodless. Matt laughed again and said, “Sleeping Beauty, huh?”

That was seven years ago now. I haven’t been kissed ever since. I know it’s a little odd, maybe statistically unlikely even, but people don’t exactly swarm to me when they see my height puts me five inches above being vertically challenged. Which would have been fine if I actually were that way. Then it would really be something beyond my control, not just extreme misfortune for my genetics. My parents aren’t even abnormally short, maybe on the shorter end but not noticeably. 

Matt tried playing that joke a few times throughout school, but I never let him go that far again. Also, nobody else was willing to do it. I never found out for sure because I always stopped him from asking, but I could tell by the way they looked at me that they wouldn’t have. That made Maria special. I wonder what type of sympathy she must feel for other people to make her willing to kiss me, and feel bad for doing so afterwards. She didn’t want me to feel bad about it or feel like she was also making fun of me. I even overheard her defending me a few times to her friends. But she never spoke to me again, although our shared friendship with Matt made us see each other frequently. 

I don’t mind. I had accepted, subconsciously somewhere along the line, that women would simply never be a thing that happened for me. The ones who did like me were completely repulsive to me and I never found it acceptable to settle for somebody I felt nothing for. So as far as kisses go, I’m glad my last one was from somebody who really meant it to be kind. I try to turn my shame into virtuous humility. It’s nice to know that there was somebody out there who could recognize that.