thinking with, “This is all-holy Elizabeth, and
she’s not the type of girl to kiss on the first date, so I’m in the clear.”
I am dead wrong
on that count. After we eat the popcorn, E gets more comfortable and soon
her head is leaning on my shoulder, and this, I can deal with. Then she shivers
rather noticeably, and just as I’m about to retrieve her coat from the seat
beside me to drape over her, she suggests that my arm on her shoulder would
definitely go a long distance in warming her up.
Okayyyy …. And once she’s snuggled beneath my right arm, she turns her head,
and breathes feverishly, into my
right ear until I turn awkwardly toward her. This is when her lips seem to
develop their very own faster-than-a-speeding-bullet superpower—they lunge forward and attach to mine. The suction is pretty
dang strong.
And so Anthony
Duck-Young Del Vecchio experiences his first kiss—a
clumsy, buttery, salty affair.
In my mind, the
kiss is a test—or maybe more of a science experiment. And gosh, do I ever want
to like it. I pay close attention to every last one of my body’s specific
physical reactions to “kissing a girl.” And despite the fact I want to create a
long and detailed list of what body parts swelled and which moved of their own
accord, there’s absolutely nothing to write down. In plainer words, no involuntary
movement whatsoever has occurred in the crotch of my pants. To say I am
disappointed would be yet another major understatement, so maybe I won’t say it.
Within a few
minutes of the start of our foray into “making out”, I am figuratively, and
quite literally, suffocating. I push her back, probably with a bit too much
force, and gasp for air. Even in the dark I can read her facial expression.
Confusion…yes, this
is very much present.
Hurt…uh-huh, I
see a fair amount of this too.
And anger,
there’s no doubt.
The two of us sit
through the remainder of the movie, shoulder-to-shoulder, in stone silence. The
drive home is darn quiet, as well. At her doorstep, the last thing I say to
her, after gulping deeply, not to mention quite audibly, is, “See you at church
on Sunday, Elizabeth.”
Her only response
is the slamming of her front door.
Church on Sunday
is going to be awkward with a capital A.
Huge sigh.
And yet another
audible gulp.
It would be a
major understatement to say that fitting in has never been an easy task for me.
But I have had it up to my eyebrows with understatements.
Not A Choice
My anxiety level
over “The Problem” is increasing by the day.
On the Friday
night of vacation week I went out on my first-ever date, and since that
sighing, gulping epic failure , for
the most part I never leave my bedroom—with the less than notable exceptions of
eating, doing mandatory chores I can’t bribe Mary to do for me, and answering
Nature’s most pressing calls—until it’s time for church on Sunday. I realize
that my parents are getting worried about me—more every hour I remain secluded.
Even Laz , who generally doesn’t notice anything but
his next big idea, texted me like ten times yestersay ,
asking what’s wrong and why don’t I want to be his wingman at the arcade in the
mall as he tries to pick up girls.
What’s wrong? I
can answer that fairly easily at this point: I have come to the uncomfortable
realization that being gay isn’t exactly a choice for me.
On Friday night,
after I dropped off E and got the door slammed in my face, I decided to drown
my sorrows in a strawberry Fribble at Friendly’s . I elected to sit in a booth
for two and drink my shake there, as I was procrastinating my return home—Mom
and Dad were going to interrogate me, lovingly, of course, about the success of
my first official date. And while sitting in that pleather booth, drowning my
sorrows in strawberry, a couple of what appeared to be male dancers from the
dance studio in the same strip mall came into the restaurant, dressed in
pushed-up, trash bag sweatpants and
she’s not the type of girl to kiss on the first date, so I’m in the clear.”
I am dead wrong
on that count. After we eat the popcorn, E gets more comfortable and soon
her head is leaning on my shoulder, and this, I can deal with. Then she shivers
rather noticeably, and just as I’m about to retrieve her coat from the seat
beside me to drape over her, she suggests that my arm on her shoulder would
definitely go a long distance in warming her up.
Okayyyy …. And once she’s snuggled beneath my right arm, she turns her head,
and breathes feverishly, into my
right ear until I turn awkwardly toward her. This is when her lips seem to
develop their very own faster-than-a-speeding-bullet superpower—they lunge forward and attach to mine. The suction is pretty
dang strong.
And so Anthony
Duck-Young Del Vecchio experiences his first kiss—a
clumsy, buttery, salty affair.
In my mind, the
kiss is a test—or maybe more of a science experiment. And gosh, do I ever want
to like it. I pay close attention to every last one of my body’s specific
physical reactions to “kissing a girl.” And despite the fact I want to create a
long and detailed list of what body parts swelled and which moved of their own
accord, there’s absolutely nothing to write down. In plainer words, no involuntary
movement whatsoever has occurred in the crotch of my pants. To say I am
disappointed would be yet another major understatement, so maybe I won’t say it.
Within a few
minutes of the start of our foray into “making out”, I am figuratively, and
quite literally, suffocating. I push her back, probably with a bit too much
force, and gasp for air. Even in the dark I can read her facial expression.
Confusion…yes, this
is very much present.
Hurt…uh-huh, I
see a fair amount of this too.
And anger,
there’s no doubt.
The two of us sit
through the remainder of the movie, shoulder-to-shoulder, in stone silence. The
drive home is darn quiet, as well. At her doorstep, the last thing I say to
her, after gulping deeply, not to mention quite audibly, is, “See you at church
on Sunday, Elizabeth.”
Her only response
is the slamming of her front door.
Church on Sunday
is going to be awkward with a capital A.
Huge sigh.
And yet another
audible gulp.
It would be a
major understatement to say that fitting in has never been an easy task for me.
But I have had it up to my eyebrows with understatements.
Not A Choice
My anxiety level
over “The Problem” is increasing by the day.
On the Friday
night of vacation week I went out on my first-ever date, and since that
sighing, gulping epic failure , for
the most part I never leave my bedroom—with the less than notable exceptions of
eating, doing mandatory chores I can’t bribe Mary to do for me, and answering
Nature’s most pressing calls—until it’s time for church on Sunday. I realize
that my parents are getting worried about me—more every hour I remain secluded.
Even Laz , who generally doesn’t notice anything but
his next big idea, texted me like ten times yestersay ,
asking what’s wrong and why don’t I want to be his wingman at the arcade in the
mall as he tries to pick up girls.
What’s wrong? I
can answer that fairly easily at this point: I have come to the uncomfortable
realization that being gay isn’t exactly a choice for me.
On Friday night,
after I dropped off E and got the door slammed in my face, I decided to drown
my sorrows in a strawberry Fribble at Friendly’s . I elected to sit in a booth
for two and drink my shake there, as I was procrastinating my return home—Mom
and Dad were going to interrogate me, lovingly, of course, about the success of
my first official date. And while sitting in that pleather booth, drowning my
sorrows in strawberry, a couple of what appeared to be male dancers from the
dance studio in the same strip mall came into the restaurant, dressed in
pushed-up, trash bag sweatpants and
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