My first boyfriend, Joel, was an absolute doll whom I met in eighth grade, while we were both performing in a fruity musical theatre troupe. He was good-looking, funny, engaging, absolutely crazy about me, well put-together, loved by all, a fantastic dancer, and a truly shameless gossip fiend.

If I knew then what I know now, I would've caught on that him being "crazy about me" had nothing to do with my foyne eighth-grade ass, I wouldn't have been so curious as to why he never made any kind of sexual move, and I wouldn't have been terribly surprised when he came out of the closet three years later. The boy practically had rainbow flags streaming from his ears. If I knew then what I know now, I might've honed my flirting skills on someone a little more willing.

Joel and I, and many of our fruity young musical theatre friends, were in a local production of "The Music Man" on the night of The First Kiss. Some of my friends and fellow cast-mates had gotten wind that I was anxious for the Big K, and if you've ever done community theatre, you know the word "secret" does not exist in the vocabulary of hyper, young, fruity musical theatre folk. Especially not when hormones are playing a role, either directly or vicariously. Needless to say, someone (or perhaps a team of someones) did me the favor of informing Joel of my "yearning."

So one night while we were all backstage, I started hearing whispering and giggling, and saw gleeful, conspiratorial glances being shot in my direction. Joel flitted towards me, all clad in his costume of powder-blue button-down shirt and crisply ironed trousers with suspenders, stage makeup perfectly applied, (what, was I BLIND??? Oh, if I knew then what I know now ...) grabbed my hand, and said, "I have to tell you something." Giggling and glee from the fruity cohorts behind him escalated to a fevered and glass-shattering pitch.

"The Music Man" was being performed in the auditorium of the middle school in my small hometown, on the only decent stage within a fifty mile radius. When we weren't waiting onstage, my friends and I were running through the corridors, exploring rooms, singing songs waaaaay too difficult for most of our pubescent voices, and being generally obnoxious little assholes. Sometime during these shenanigans, Joel had apparently found a very cozy and unlocked janitor's closet, where he dragged me for the Big K, the vibratory gaggle of our friends trailing not far behind.

So after dragging me into the closet, and Joel closed the door and proceeded to dart his poor eyes in every possible direction to avoid looking at my face. I didn't take this very personally, because Joel was a rather squirrelly and energetic lad, and I knew that he was incapable of keeping still for any length of time. I just stood there, quiet and curious, in keeping with my demeanor throughout most of my formative years.

Joel finally looked at me and muttered something to the effect of "So I hear you want me to kiss you," and I said something to the effect of "Um, yeah." We laughed nervously, and I'm sure Joel uttered one of his famous witticisms as a lead-in.

And under the single glowing lightbulb of the janitor's closet in the corridor of Horace Mann Middle School, he kissed me. For, like, five seconds. I don't remember any kind of smoothe lean-in or arm-touching. Actually, I don't think there was any contact other than the collision of our lips and the awkward slugs of our tongues swirling aimlessly in each others' mouths.

(He later told me that he wasn't expecting the tongue, but in the moment, I was thinking, "Isn't THIS what a kiss is like? Isn't the tongue the fun part?" So I just fuckin' shoved it in there.)

Our faces parted, and we sort of giggled. Joel reached for the door handle, and paused. "Oh, wait," he said, removed from his mouth the gum he had been chewing, and handed it to me for me to chew, so that everyone would know the deed was done, the eagle had landed, Operation Big K had been a success. I inwardly acknowledged the comic absurdity of the request, but put the gum in my mouth, perhaps due in part to that sense of comic absurdity.

We emerged from the closet to an audience of ecstatic wannabe voyeurs. Little did they know that spit was only unwillingly swallowed, and mouth-to-mouth gum-passing had only been accomplished through verbal agreement.

So, that was my First Kiss. Me and a sweet gay boy smooching in a janitor's closet while our friends pressed their ears to the door, the appropriate "Pick-a-Little, Talk-a-Little" being sung not so far away. It's a fond memory, really.

Looking back, I see it as a sort of odd combination of the pictaresque and the modern. Pictaresque, because we were both fresh-faced and dressed as 1920s Illinois farm-kids. Modern, because we had ducked clandestinely into a closet, I was by far the more eager participant, and Joel was a flaming homosexual.

Don't think I miss the irony of my first kiss taking place with a gay boy, in a closet.

Oh, if I knew then what I know now, and how the rest of my love-life would proceed in a similarly farcical way, I would've chosen then and there to become either a nun or a prostitute.

I must say, Joel was a dear friend, and that it wasn't a surprise when he came out of the closet a few years later. We had remained close after we broke up.

Also, I think he was the perfect first boyfriend for me. I was a pretty late-bloomer, and it was A-OK with me at the time to be dating someone who just wanted to put his arm around me and buy me teddy bears. I think I was 17 when I received my first "Oh, so THIS is a Kiss" kiss.

But that's been my only amorous experience in a janitor's closet, so far.

Misspinkkate, will this do?

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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