The Kissing Game:
Two summers ago, I realized that I had spent every weekend for the past month and a half at weddings, or wedding showers, or bachelorette parties, and I was so, so tired of it. Not in a begrudging way—I’m all for free shrimp and champagne and my friends’ happiness, but after watching so many girls my age squeal when they unwrapped mixing bowls, I needed a reality check. So I threw a So You’re Not Engaged Party. This party was a hit, y’all. Ten single girls, lots of margaritas, and everyone got a fake tiara and ring when they walked in the front door.
After the gift exchange (presents had to be frivolous and immature, like pink leopard steering wheel covers and Hello Kitty watches), everyone put on their pajamas and sat on my floor with our sleeping bags in a circle and talked about boys and scary stories, and it was just like sixth grade again, only without all the bad parts, and more alcohol.
We played one of my favorite games, the Kissing Game. (Not like that. That came after the pillow fight in our pink negligees.) Emily and I used to play the Kissing Game all the time in college, usually on road trips. To play the Kissing Game in a group, you go around the circle and everyone must tell everything they can remember about their first kiss, such as full name, eye color, and all the gory details. Then you decide who had the best story, and move on to the second kiss. With just two people in the car, you get a lot farther, but with a group, you get to hear about people making out with their older brother’s friends on the driveway, and guys named Dickie Dickerson. Or, as might interest some people, the person whose second kiss was an all-night makeout session with Dave Matthews in his hotel room. Yes, that Dave Matthews. Naturally, that person won the whole game, but lost her dignity.
So, who wants to play? I’ll go first.
My first kiss was a blue-eyed charmer named Chad, who was an oh-so cool eighth grader while I was a not-so cool seventh grader. It was at a youth group retreat, in the boys’ cabin, on his bunk bed, while we were supposed to be horseback riding. After I got over my initial thrill that I was actually French-kissing a boy named Chad, I was overcome by a wave of disgust, partly from the fact that Chad’s tongue was raping my mouth, and partly because in lieu of showering, Chad had just been pouring on daily layers of Brut cologne. He tried again on the bus on the ride home and I pretended I was asleep. I ran into him years later at a senior class car wash when I was eighteen and he tried to pick me up. I think it was because I was wearing a swimsuit, and he was drunk at 11 am on a Saturday.