“If you ask me when I had my first kiss…”

If you ask me when I had my first kiss, I'll tell you a dramatic story about being in an fire evacuation center with my first ever boyfriend when I was 15 years old and feeling seen and cared for and that story will be true except for the fact that it wasn't my first kiss at all. My real first kiss, the one I don't tell people about and rarely even let myself think about, happened several years earlier. It was about a month after my 13th birthday and I was at summer camp feeling free and safe and at home when one of the cool older kids took an interest in me. In my mind, I was special because this very mature boy thought I was interesting. I was so busy thinking I was special that I didn't think about the fact that he was nearly 4 years older than me or how it was strange that he proudly told me about how he wasn't a virgin on the first day I knew him or how he thought it was hot that I had never even kissed a boy or how it made me feel when he dared me to kiss another girl when just the three of us had snuck out to play truth or dare late that night. She was 12, and in my darkest moments I wonder what would have happened if she were the one that impressed him more that night and what might have happened that I was not yet aware of. The next day he asked if I was ready for my real first kiss. I remember saying no, that my friends were watching, that I didn't have time. We went on a walk, away from my friends, and he asked again and I said no again. Then he made a bet with me to get me to let him kiss me. Time was running out before someone would come looking for us, so I took the bet. I lost and before I could think about it I was crowded against a post and his mouth was on mine and his body was pressing me there and I could not escape. Finally, he got up and left. I remember sitting there, my face feeling hot, my body feeling numb, my mind feeling fuzzy, but I thought that was how I was supposed to feel. It was my first kiss after all. I was supposed to be excited, so I made myself excited. Over the next few days and weeks, we stole moments together whenever we could and in those stolen moments, he stole whatever he could from me. We would lie on the dirt behind a small brick wall, him on top of me, pressing me into the ground. If I try, I can remember everything he said to me and everything he did. But I rarely try, and I won't right now. I try hard not to think about it so much these days, but when I do, I think about all the adults, people I really trusted, who saw this relationship and didn't question it. I think about all the older kids I looked up to who told me the next year how they knew something was off with him and how they wanted to warn me but didn't. I never really told them what happened. I think about the way I felt when I got home and learned he had had a girlfriend the whole time. I think about my math tutor, 4 years later, who told me I would never be assaulted because I looked too tough and how she didn't know what made me look like that in the first place. But I also think about my few close friends who held me while I cried and, without knowing the whole story, protected me from him at all costs. I think about the way it did feel to have what I have come to think of as my first kiss two years later. How I cried afterwards when I realized the way I was supposed to feel. I think about the people in my life who have taught me great strength and the men who have helped me trust men again. Mostly though, I don't let myself think about it at all.

- TB