My first kiss was a stolen one in an empty room.
I was all of eight years old. The older members of the household had gone out for some family celebration. Only my younger brother was there, sleeping (his favourite pastime).
The room had a large mirror ideal for posing and preening, and a dressing-table full of rows of lipsticks and other rainbow-hued make-up stuff (all part of the armoury of my newly-wedded cousin's wife).
I was irresistably drawn to the luscious lipstick in their sleek shiny cases... Red She Said, Very Berry and Coco Loco. But it was Passionate Pink that I wanted...passionately.
The strawberry shade glided over my lips like smooth honey. Enchanted by taste and the texture, by the very grown-up appearance of my face (or so I thought, I'm almost sure I overdid the outlines), I puckered up and, leaning towards the mirror, gave a resounding kiss to myself.
Admiring the pink lipstick mark (on the mirror it looked so pouty, if you know what I mean), I spent a long and wonderfully narcissistic half-hour with myself. Wonder what Freud, Jung and co. would say about that.
So lost was I in self-passion that I came to myself at the sound of the garden-gate opening. Hurriedly rubbing off the lipstick off my lips, I forgot about the mark on the mirror.
Needless to say, I was caught (pink-lipped, if not red-handed), and became the butt of many a family joke for a long, long, time. Enough to turn my thoughts of love from myself to other worthier objects, like the boy-next-door.
DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST KISS?
P.S: I'm sending this post off with a flying kiss to Scribbit's August Write-Away contest. She's one of my must-read bloggers and I just love her write-away contests.