Brian B got a lot of us thinking and reminiscing with his post Do You Remember Your First Kiss?. I was going to answer as a comment, but you know me, there's a story here.

First, I want to clarify that I don't count little Billy in third grade running up to me at recess on a dare and pecking my cheek--or even my mouth--then running back to the other boys gathered laughing and cheering.

That's not the kind of experience that qualifies as a real "first kiss." And unless a spin-the-bottle kiss was a doozy, not a hurried, embarrassed buss, that doesn't count either.

Here's what counts:

His name is Fred, called Freddie back then, literally the boy next door. Well, one of them. The oldest and hunkiest of three brothers. Football player, top of his class (soon off to Harvard in fact), dark hair, almost one eyebrow in that sexy Treat Williams way.

The middle brother, the one my age, had a crush on me. I couldn't see him for my overwhelming crush on Freddie, who never seemed to see me at all.

One early summer day, as usual there was a gang of neighborhood kids in our rec room (wow, isn't that a dated phrase?) I have no clue what Freddie was doing there, he was 17, no 18. I was barely 14, my friends and I were babies to a high school star stud, college bound.

He was always on my teen radar, though I knew I was decidedly not on his. But at some point that day I saw him looking at me in a way I instinctively realized was "interest." My heart started to pound. I still remember that. I know now it was mostly fear.

But at the time, OMG, Freddie was staring at me. Intently. I didn't see him move but suddenly he was beside me. He said, "What's this door?" In a daze I told him the cedar closet. He took my hand, led me inside, closed us in. It was a room-sized closet but we stood close, not touching, eyes trying to adjust to the almost total darkness.

I could feel his presence on my exposed skin, hear his breathing. The hair on the nape of my neck moved, sent a frisson of pleasure down my spine. His scent washed over me, light sweat, not unpleasant, English Leather, something else. I know now probably musk. Definitely male.

My mind was racing... what now, should I turn on the light, should I say something, maybe this was a mistake, where, how... and then he kissed me.

I thought they made this stuff up in books, but as his lips closed over mine, soft and hard at the same time, urging them open, his tongue gentle and then firm in my mouth, I nearly swooned.

Oh, the sweet contradictions of a real, grown up kiss. The heat of his hands, one against my waist, the other on the back of my head as he pressed me closer. Our bodies tensed, touched, from kiss to knees ... and I actually felt the room begin to spin.

He slowly pulled away, dropped his hands. I staggered a little, he steadied me. Lifted one hand to lightly touch my cheek. Stepped back. "No. No," I barely heard his whisper. We stayed still for a minute, not speaking. He opened the door and left.

I was devastated. The perfect boy of my dreams had finally, finally kissed me, but found me wanting, rejected me.

Oh, the difference between 14 and 18. He'd not rejected me, but my inexperience and youth. He'd pulled himself back from making a big mistake. Less for him than for me.

It was years til I understood --and appreciated-- that gesture. And still, it was almost the perfect first kiss, sweet, dreamlike, a taste, a hint of a future of genuine passion.

Why almost perfect? In my dizzy, hazy excitement, I didn't kiss him back. Because I didn't know how.

~~~~
I've come to realize that was a good thing. Karma. He might not have been able to remain such a gentleman and I'd have started that part of my life far too soon. At least I learned what a really spectacular kiss should be. And I'm very, very good at it now.

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I didn't remember this story, or the kiss, for a long time. One day a few years ago my younger sister, teasing me and giving away that she'd read my diary way back when, quoted all I could manage to say on the subject: "Freddie NoLastName at last!"

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My mother and his mother are still friends, live near each other in Florida. She just saw Fred and his wife last week while he was visiting his mother. I wonder if... no, he wouldn't remember.