Real Weird Sexual Encounters

My First Kiss

You know how your first kiss is supposed to feel magical?

A soft flutter in your belly.

A hand gently brushing your cheek.

The whole world melting away as lips meet lips, and suddenly you understand why every teenage movie makes such a big fucking deal about it.

You're supposed to remember your first kiss forever.

Unfortunately, I do.

Mine wasn't magical.

It wasn't romantic.

It wasn't even really a kiss.

My first kiss was a violation.

A betrayal.

A moment so wrong that, years later, remembering it can still make my skin crawl.

But the fucked-up thing is, once upon a time, I actually had a crush on the boy who did it.

Let's call him Blake.

Back in primary school, Blake was that boy.

Funny. Fast. Loud. Cocky.

The kind of kid who seemed to move through the playground with his own gravitational field. Wherever he went, people noticed.

He had that stupid cheeky smile that suggested he'd already gotten away with whatever he was about to do.

And little me?

Oh, little me was gone.

I had the biggest crush on him.

Secret. Innocent. Stupid.

The kind where nothing actually happens, so your imagination fills in everything else.

Maybe he likes me.

Maybe one day he'll tell me.

Maybe we'll hold hands.

Maybe we'll kiss.

Cute little fantasies.

Nothing dangerous.

And for one tiny moment, I thought maybe I hadn't imagined it.

We were on a school trip to Woody Island.

I remember the heat.

The ocean glittering so brightly you almost had to squint at it. Salt in the air. Sunscreen on everyone's skin. Kids yelling across the rocks while little crabs disappeared into cracks beneath our feet.

We were climbing around, daring each other to go higher.

Then Blake reached for my hand.

That was it.

No dramatic confession.

No audience.

No stupid teenage movie soundtrack.

Just his hand reaching quietly for mine.

My heart nearly exploded.

So naturally, I did the most romantic thing imaginable.

I panicked.

Pulled my hand away.

And fucking ran.

Actually ran.

Across the rocks.

Away from my crush.

Because apparently my childhood response to romantic tension was flight.