First French kiss

When I was in the seventh grade, I had a bigtime crush of Joe Cloutier.

Now, Joe wasn't exactly the kind of guy that other girls swooned over. He was skinny, had dark curly hair, and wore glasses. Okay, okay! He was a bit nerdy, but something about that attracted me to him. Being a nerdy seventh grader, I don't think that Joe quite had the hormone rush going for him that I did, so I knew he would need some encouragement from me.

Anyway, I really only have one memory of Joe. Among other things, Joe played the cello in the school orchestra. Always looking for an excuse to be near him, I one day mustered up the courage to offer to carry his cello home for him.

Joe agreed, and I carried that damn instrument for what must've been a hundred miles in the opposite direction of my house. Did I mind? No, of course not. I was in love, and the opportunity to be so close to Joe was absolutely delicious.

When we got to his house, I handed Joe his cello. Without warning, he kissed me. I remember how the mushy feeling of his bloated tongue caught me off guard. Actually, it was kind of gross. Still, all I could think was that Joe must have liked me too, because he was kissing me. When it was done, he looked at me in a funny way, so I said goodbye and turned to walk home. I was kind of in heaven, but really more weirded out than anything else. Up until then, no boy had ever smushed his face against mine.

I was still in heaven a block away, and I wiped my face thinking how just minutes earlier Joe, the boy I loved had just kissed me. Wouldn't you know, as I reached up, I felt something sticky, a booger. The love of my life had left me a gift. No wonder he didn't have much to say when it was over!

Oh, and in case you are wondering, that pretty much was my whole relationship with Joe. Never again did I carry a cello for a boy, and that would be a good thing.