In this op-ed, Condé Nast senior research manager Yulia Khabinsky reflects on her first kiss, and the loss we experience when expectations don't match reality.
When I was young, I imagined my first kiss would happen haphazardly with a boy I had a crush on. Maybe we would be alone on a corner of the blacktop during recess and he would lean over and give me a peck on the lips. I'd run and tell all of my girlfriends, and they'd tease me and I'd blush, feeling a bit embarrassed — but just a bit. Mostly I'd feel satisfied and adult-like.
After I entered middle school, I was certain it would happen during a coed sleepover, late at night, while playing spin the bottle. I wasn't sure which one of us would spin, but it didn't really matter; the bottle would slow cinematically, point toward the other, and we'd each lean forward and kiss, awkwardly but sweetly.
In high school, I imagined a made-up boy cupping his hands around my face, gently pulling me in. You know, the kind of kiss they zoom in on in teen movies. The kind that's totally, utterly unrealistic.
But my first kiss didn't happen on the playground, or during a middle school game of spin the bottle, or in high school with a boy who cupped my cheeks. It happened when I was 15, in a hotel room two hours from home, with a 19-year-old boy I felt no sexual attraction to.
So much of how we measure adulthood is centered on achieving specific milestones, like getting a driver's license, a first job, graduating. A first kiss, a boyfriend (or girlfriend), and losing your virginity rank high among these milestones. Sometimes, even more than those other goalposts, sexual milestones can feel like the true markers of growing up. If they are delayed or never happen, we may feel like there's something wrong with us. I know I did.
When my first kiss finally did happen, it was icky and not even something I wanted, which made me feel much worse.
First kisses are supposed to be memorable and a bit clumsy — a careful eschewing of childhood innocence. Mine was, well... I don't actually remember the details. I just know that we did kiss at some point, because the hookup that followed also ticked off a few other firsts, though we stopped short of sex.
But this isn't a story about a boy taking advantage. Not really. The boy in question was fine; nice enough, I guess. This is a story about letting go of the shame we feel when things happen that we don't want to happen, and when expectations don't match reality.
During my junior year of high school, a friend invited me to stay with her in a hotel suite in a city a few hours away. She was looking at colleges in the area and wanted to visit a guy friend who was a freshman at one of the schools she was interested in.
After hitting up a few dorm parties, my friend and I left for the hotel. The guy friend and his buddy tagged along. The four of us spent a few more hours hanging out on the hotel room's balcony. We drank a bit, but no one got sloppy. We mostly discussed books that inspired and changed us, and the guy friend spoke excitedly about a philosophy seminar focused entirely on the work of Czech author Bohumil Hrabal. At one point it felt as though I was observing myself from afar, amused by how mature and highbrow it all seemed. So much more of this to look forward to, I thought. I couldn't wait.
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November 27, 2020 at 08:05PM
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My First Kiss: The Messy Complexity of Sexual Milestones - Teen Vogue
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