The first time I kissed a boy, I missed. We were in the front seat of his car, idling in my parent’s driveway. I took my seatbelt off so fast it hit me in the face. Released, I peeled over to his side of the car, smashed my lips onto half of his mouth and ran to my room to cry.
The first time I kissed a boy in college, I had waited an entire month for it. Not for him but for the kiss. I did the party girl freshman baby thing I had learned from my sister, from my peers, from my first kisser’s stories, waiting for him to find me. And he did — in a frat house my friends would later tell me, over lunch and laughter, was called “the roofie house.” I would not cry in front of them at our dining hall table.
He was in charge of the keg. Perfect specimen, tall and goofy looking, hooked by the line of bros waiting to get their cups filled. I could stand by him and it wasn’t weird and he couldn’t easily escape me. Romance.
When we left for his apartment, he held my hand. I did not know where I was. I did not know where I was going. It was dark. His hand. The air on my arms. I wanted my kiss. I wanted my magic passage dream. It was only a hand. It was not a dream. It was dark.
We got to his apartment. There were dirty dishes, there were barstools. We talked in his kitchen. He offered me a drink, I said, no thank you. He offered me a drink, I said, no thank you. He offered me a drink, I said, no thank you. So we went to his room. We kissed on his bed. I said, I just want to kiss. He said, OK. I said, I just want to kiss. He said, OK. I said, I just want to kiss. He said why? So I said, OK. And then I didn’t have a shirt on and then I didn’t have a bra on, I said, I just want to kiss. He pulled on the top of my shorts. I said, I just want to kiss. He said, why? I said, maybe I should leave. He said, “you’re an English major, figure it out.” So I put on my bra. I put on my shirt. I walked out of his room. I walked out of his house.
It was OK, I found another boy that night. I kissed the other boy. I told him I didn’t want to just kiss. He told me I was OK, but not as pretty as my friend. He told me he had slept with 13 girls. He told me he did cocaine. I told him, I’m no saint. I told him I wanted to do more than kiss. I told him I meant it. I walked home alone after he pushed me off his bed. I forgot my watch on his windowsill. I went months without knowing the time.
Still, I looked the frat boy up on Facebook. I followed the cocaine guy on Twitter. I told the story to my friends over the same dining hall table and I laughed.
For a long time, that’s what being a woman has meant to me.
See, the first boy I kissed, we didn’t talk to each other much. But there were those moments, those pick me up put me down kiss me kiss me kiss me kind of moments. Then there were those moments when he’d touched me and I’d feel my ribs glue together — one stacked crooked on top of the other, thick with Elmer’s glue and pulled so tight I couldn’t breathe. In those moments I would hide my face and think about how I had never not had words before, how quickly I took my breathe and hid it in my rib cage, how fast everything glued itself down. I did not always want to kiss. It was my ribs that told me there was no way to say this to a boy who wanted to kiss me.
For a long time, that’s what being a woman has meant to me.
Since beginning college, I’ve gauged the intimacy of my friendships by the disclosure of their assault stories. Have they told me about the party they don’t remember? The bed they never wanted to wake up in? Have we talked about the punch in the face? The push in the parking lot? The guilt? The shame? The brisk stories or the fast ones? Good, now we can eat meals without talking and have sleepovers we actually sleep in. Our war stories laid to bed.
For a long time, that’s what being a woman has meant to me.
When my best friend told me she was raped, the only thing she would say was, “I did this to myself.”
For a long time, that’s what being a woman has meant to me.
I don’t think there are bad people in this story.
There are silences.
There are silencers.
There are words that suffocate on their own breath.
There are words with hands around their necks.
I have kissed good men. I have walked home alone in the dark with my head down. I have worn short skirts, I have put down my hand, I have blushed at catcalls. I have gone back to people because they were no good to me. I have made my choices and broken them.
Why does being a woman always have to mean that?
Why does being a woman have to mean anything?
Olivia
