Kissy Kissy

You may be, but just as well may not be, interested in how I learned to kiss. If you are not interested in reading about pre-teen spit-swapping, move along, I won't be offended. But, prompted again by my pot-stirring sister, I am going to write about my decadent season of learning the delicate art of locking lips.

In my seventh-grade year, my friend Ruth invited me to a party. Upon arrival, I was ushered down to a basement in which chairs had been placed (strategically, I now realize) in pairs along the walls of the room. There was a white-clothed table along one wall which held the requisite punch and chips, and music was playing the standards of the time - Steely Dan, The Eagles, Kansas, Chicago...yes, of course, ha ha, Kiss.

I was a little shocked to see boys there. All of the parties I had attended up til then had been filled with giggling girls, eating cake and gathering around the main event, the friend with a birthday. I knew that it wasn't Ruth's birthday, but I still never suspected. As soon as everyone arrived, Ruth posted the ground rules.

We were there to play kissing games. We would play an assortment of kissing games, including Spin the Bottle, Seven Minutes in Heaven, and some others whose titles I cannot remember. I can't remember if I was excited or frightened at the prospect, but I know I was stunned.

The group gathered on the floor in a circle and we spun the bottle. Before I knew it, the lights were out and somehow, we were coupled, sitting on the strategically placed chairs, trying to figure out what the heck to do. We all knew each other from school - there were no strangers here - and that may have made it even weirder. At 12 years old, I was changing partners as often as the records changed. I was the tween equivalent of Kate Hudson, a virtual minute hand tumbling by number after number...

It's a miracle I never got mono, or even strep throat. We met for these get-togethers quite often that year. We rotated houses and for some crazy reason, our parents left us alone in our basements to do our riotous bidding. Nothing else ever happened - nary a budding breast was touched, not a hip caressed, not even a tongue poked into the picture. It was purely a lesson in future love, preparation for more mature make-outs. Really, it was totally innocent.

It also taught me another very important lesson. When poor Madeleine starts to have parties which include boys, David and I will be stuck like glue to the basement walls.