My first kiss was a weird one. It wasn't too long ago, but I remember it happening faster than my eyes could shut. It was the end of November during a relationship that wasn't even a month old. It was still in the honeymoon phase where I saw no wrong with him. Where I saw no faults with the situation. That came later.
I remember the warmth of his lips and the secure feeling of his hand gently cupping the side of my waist. My head was tilted up, but the after-feeling was one of shock and pure joy. It overlooked the idea it was next to the boys' bathroom after school hours. His two youngest siblings were waiting for me outside.
That was my first actual kiss.
My first kiss was through an action where a parent will kiss a child's wound for comfort. I was flipping through a notebook carelessly, and the paper sliced against the skin of the tip of my finger. I whined about my paper cut, demanding for instant care from one of my best friends. His brother. He kissed my paper cut, telling me my "booboo" was healed.
He didn't kiss my lips, so I don't consider that my first kiss. It happened a month before I was asked out.
