There was a tongue in my mouth and it wasn’t mine.
I didn’t want it to stop, but some advance notice would’ve been nice. Sure I’ve been waiting forever for someone to kiss me, but I didn’t have time to prepare! I’m not sure what I would’ve prepared, but still, he could’ve asked me first.
Maybe he’s not supposed to ask me. I’ve never seen guys kiss each other except for in porn and that… is something else. My hands were sweaty and I tried to dry them on my pants. What if he notices me rubbing my pants and gets the wrong idea? I should stop that. I think I stopped breathing. No I’m breathing, but I think I need to breathe more often. Especially now. Breathing is good. Time is being weird. Everything sped up, or slowed down. I can’t really tell because I’m a little drunk.
I need to stop overthinking this. I need to calm down. It’s only a kiss. I’d kissed people before. I used to kiss girls at sleepovers when we played spin-the-bottle or truth-or-dare, but that was a long time ago. Janie and I would kiss at parties sometimes to make boys jealous. It never worked out for me. I never got a real kiss. I wanted a real kiss.
And this was it, I guess. I mean, it would’ve been nice if I’d been sober. If I were sober I could focus better. His face is a little blurry this close up. Not ugly, but my brain is definitely struggling to piece it all together. Focus.
His tongue is still swirling around in my mouth. It’s big and wet. I never realized how much space a tongue takes up. Two tongues is almost too much. Maybe I should put my tongue in his mouth. I don’t want him to think I don’t know what I’m doing.
Oh crap I don’t think I’m doing this right. Kissing is hard. I hope he doesn’t stop kissing me. I want this to go on forever. Or at least until he stops to tell me how perfect the kiss was. Or maybe he’d whisper it in my ear. Or he’d whisper that he loves me.
Holy shit he’s kissing me. He is kissing me. He, a boy. I’m not even totally sure who he is. He doesn’t go to my school. I don’t think he’s ugly. He might be. It’s hard to tell this close up. I wish I had gotten a better look at him earlier. Maybe I should check just to be safe.
“Wait.” I managed to struggle past his eager tongue.
He pulled away quickly. Time sped up.
Time slowed. He wasn’t ugly. Older, probably. 18 or 19, maybe. Blond with dark eyebrows. Impatient dark eyebrows. Right. I’m supposed to be talking. Time sped up. Say something. Anything.
“I’d like to kiss you.”
He laughed. I put my tongue in his mouth.
This was in response to the writing prompt I posted earlier. Did you write something for it? Let me know!
Today’s prompt comes from YEAH WRITE! a tumblr account that’s great if you’re into that kind of thing. Also, since it comes from tumblr, it actually comes from 166,039 other places, but I saw it on YEAH WRITE.
Write about a unique first kiss.
Is it your main character’s first kiss ever, or just first kiss with this other person? Does the kiss happen organically, or is it “staged” (such as from a game like 7 Minutes in Heaven or a practice kiss for a play)? What are the ages of the two kissers? Who initiates it?
In addition to describing the situation, try to describe all of the senses—not just feel. How do the kissers’ breath smell? How do their mouths taste? Do either or both of them have their eyes open? As they kiss, what interesting things are they hearing?
I think this is one I can do justice so expect (don’t expect) me to have written a wonderful little scene in the near future!
My friends and I have a pretty acerbic repartee that is as hard to follow as it is friendly. We aren’t bad people, despite what you might hear us say about each other. Besides, we know each other’s emotional kryptonite if it ever comes to friendship ending-hatred and we know to steer clear of these points. For the record, the first clue to my emotional kryptonite can be found by unscrambling select letters in this blog post.
In fact, most of the stuff we say to one another is pretty harmless (except for when we play board games). You know who are vicious? Anonymous people on the internet.
If you don’t know what I mean:
- What wonderful plane of existence do you live on?
- It is my sworn duty to ruin to ruin your happiness by showing you any comment section. Ever.
Alright it’s not always bad.
Once, I happened upon one of these rare not awful corners of the internet. It was a strange place. A place of imagination. A place called LitReactor.
I don’t know how I ended up in this magic place, but appreciated being able to speak with like-minded storytellers far removed from the infinitely awful wasteland of trolls.
It’s a pretty great site with essays on writing from established authors, including Chuck Palahniuk, forums, workshops, and writing exercises.
For Halloween last year, they featured a rather spooky contest which appealed to my love of Lovecraft. The contest – which I was grossly late to apply to – said to write a short story, based on an original monster in your hometown with a minimum body count of 3.
Before I came up with a monster, I came up with a fear from my memory like a creeping horror. One night when I was little, I had a bad dream and thought to ease my mind by going to my parents. This was no small feat as I had to make the long trek through an old farm house. However familiar it was during the day, at night it was full of sounds and shadows. I crept out of my bedroom in the dark, running my hands along the wall for support. I knew that I wouldn’t get much light until the bottom of the stairs where the cracked window of the old porch door let in the street light. I hugged the wall as I descended, sure to keep my feet away from the gaps in the bannister’s spindles in case there was something ready to reach up and grab me. I made it to the bottom, but felt very exposed turning my back to the old door. I stupidly looked outside into the night to where at the end of the lane a shadowy figure stood.
In the daylight it was, of course, the Ilex tree that grew out from the hedge and spread its prickly leaves on the lawn. At night, it would always be that shadowy thing watching for me.
So that was the fear, but what was the monster? I weeded through the memories of my childhood until I recall the unpleasant time I came across a rotting salmon. It had washed up on the bank of the dyke amongst the bulrushes and skunk cabbage only to be discovered by my dog. He immediately began to eat it and unleashed the most pungent, gag-inducing smell upon the world.
I probably could’ve pulled him away, but my constitution wouldn’t let me get within ten feet of it. So I seethed and waited until my dog ate enough of it to make himself sick. After rolling in both the dog vomit and salmon, he’d had enough and I could walk him home.
It only took a few hours to write The Bogmar after merging these two memories and I was pretty excited to post it for others to read. In my eagerness, however, I didn’t really do a good job editing it. I was too close to it, to high on the rush of having written something that wasn’t garbage to stop and think that maybe it might be a little bit garbage.
That’s where my friends come in. I passed it around to a few of my readers and on LitReactor and while people liked it. It was far from perfect. Aside from pointing out the typos, a common problem when writing late at night, they had some really constructive feedback. They knew what didn’t work for them and there’s no arguing with them on that point. I didn’t change everything (they probably won’t like absolutely everything) but I did take it to heart and made revisions.
I haven’t shared the second version because to be honest it’s more of a story for me. It’s a good place to go when I need inspiration. It’s moody and takes me home to a dark and foggy place. Most importantly, it proves to me that I’m not entirely bad at this, especially when I look back on the original.
So for this Craft Wednesday I recommend checking out LitReactor and more importantly, start looking at people you know who will be honest with you. Their critiques will make you a stronger writer, just don’t let them tell you you’re garbage. Maybe you should also have a cheerleader in case you’re feeling down and need someone to revive your emotionally devastated husk.
I’d like to say that I’m here to share my life, but really I haven’t lived. An obedient guy from a farm doesn’t really make for an interesting subject. Sorry. To me, interesting is the safest way to put anything and it doesn’t apply. I’m boring. The whitest of white bread in the buffet of life. I’m not even exhibiting that faux-humble or necessary bleakness which makes for something interesting. I don’t life a very fast or exciting life. More often than not, I’m at home with my husband and cat. If we’re really feeling particularly daring, we’ll play a board game.
So why am I here?
Perhaps I’m here for the possibility of creating something worth writing about. Perhaps this is a cautionary tale to warn younger gays away from being too melancholy or introspective. Or perhaps I’m here because I’m full of shit.
I don’t honestly believe there aren’t stories here. Even if I’ve never been backpacking anywhere interesting, I have things to say. There exist a limited number of scintillating tales of my love life. Dates gone awry. I could talk about the time I got a bj in an Abbey but I figure I’m already too prone to smiting. I could talk about that one time I dated someone with the same name as me, only to find out he thought my name was Steve. I could even write about the 8 years that I’ve been with my now husband. I won’t because I respect our relationship too much.
And I’ve grown accustomed to a certain standard of living which I don’t think I could maintain for too long on half of our (his) stuff.
Perhaps I’m over thinking it. Maybe I only write these things to get people to like me.
No that can’t be it [insert obligatory joke highlighting necessary bleakness for comedic relief].
I wrote this at a writing workshop that I’m taking part of. I hope to be able to share a little bit of what I write there or what I learned. It was written based off the prompt:
Why have you come to share your life or your stories?