First Kiss, Last Straw

Confessions of a Late Bloomer Part 3

I had my first boyfriend as a freshman in high school. I’m still not entirely sure how it moved from noticing him across the cafeteria to him being my official bf.

Maybe it was the “fresh meat” effect at a small school. I was new, wide-eyed, and visibly desperate for a boyfriend, like a puppy who just wanted someone, anyone, to pick them.

He was a junior. He walked with a kind of forced swagger, one of those overly choreographed limps that made him look like he was constantly walking away from an imaginary explosion.

But I was in ninth grade. And I was dying for someone to like me.

So I ignored the red flags. All of them.

Like how he left a note in my locker after every single class period.
Like how he insisted on sliding his hand into my back pocket as we walked down the hallway, as if we were in a bad rom-com no one asked for.

This would have been sweet in theory… maybe. But I was the girl who tensed at hugs, who didn’t know what to do with affection that was too familiar, too fast, too much.

(But that’s a different story.)

This first boyfriend taught me a lot.
Like how quickly “romantic” can become claustrophobic.
How being wanted doesn’t always feel like being seen.
And how your nervous system starts whispering things to you long before your voice learns how to say them.

He taught me what I didn’t want: the excessive touching, the constant checking-in, the emotional monitoring, the kind of connection that feels more like clinging.

And also… what a first kiss should not be like.

I only remember fragments.
We were outside. It was nighttime. I remember the stars.

I’ve always loved stargazing; something about that wide-open sky makes me feel like my whole soul can breathe. I remember talking, telling him about a movie I’d seen. I couldn’t recall the title, but the scene stuck with me. This character with amnesia, looking at the constellations, says,
“See there? That’s the big dripper. And that’s the little dripper…”

But before I could even finish the story, he swooped in.

I wasn’t expecting it. I turned my head mid-sentence, and instead of a kiss, his mouth slid across my cheek like a slug on a windshield.

That was my first kiss.

It didn’t stop there.

He also thought licking my ear was a good idea.
(It wasn’t.)

Eventually, I complained to my friends about the notes, the hand in the pocket, the public affection, and, yes, the unsolicited ear-licking.

One day, my best friend had had enough. She turned to him and said,
“You know she doesn’t like that, right?”

He looked at me, genuinely surprised.
“You don’t?”

“No. Really. I don’t.”

Shortly after, we broke up.

It was dramatic. He drove his shiny red Mustang around my block again and again.

That was my first breakup.

I dated two more boys after that, then quietly opted out of the dating scene altogether until after I graduated.

It’s funny, looking back now how many of those moments felt confusing and overwhelming, but also like the beginning of a lesson I didn’t have the language for yet.

Boundaries don’t start with bold declarations.
They start with a single discomfort, a moment of tension, a voice in your head that says, “Actually… I don’t like this.”

Back then, I didn’t know how to say no without guilt.
But I did start listening.
And learning.
And little by little, choosing myself.

Also, ideally, I’ll go the rest of my life without someone licking my ear.

Always,
Your Trusted Friend ❤️