Skip to content


May 4, 2011

“I just felt the earth move beneath my feet…” is my Indie Ink IIChallenge this week from @DafeenaJameel. Thanks Dafeena — this was fun :).


“I’m pretty sure they call it ‘Spin The Bottle’ for more than the obvious reasons.”

At least, that’s what I told my older sister after I received my very first French Kiss.

“Okay, back up. Um, what?” she looked at me in confusion. “I get the kissing part. I mean, der. But why another reason?” she asked me with a fair amount of trepidation in her voice and on her freckled fifteen-year old face.

See, I was about twelve years old at this point – two years into my ‘career’ as a writer. I not only questioned every situation, I also wrote down every last detail, which unfortunately included her recent bout of “illness” after an evening out with her girlfriends that ended with her throwing up in the aluminum milk can (oh so popular in the seventies) that stood next to her bed.

She still hadn’t forgiven me for leaving my incriminating notebook evidence open on my desk (hey, milk and cookies called). Arguing that the horrific smell was evidence enough (apparently just putting the lid on a milk can does not mask the smell of alcohol-laced vomit), was still not flying with her.

In all honesty, I couldn’t really blame her for wondering why I was questioning the validity of the classic ‘Spin The Bottle’ tradition, given its tried and true trustworthiness.

Yet here I was.


Not sure I could adequately explain, given the surreal nature of my experience, I began to tell her about my sleepover at Sunday School Camp the night before…

Somehow the counselors (teenagers themselves) had left us alone long enough that we indulged in a quick and dirty game of Bottle; four guys, four girls, in the dark with a flashlight, just outside the synagogue – in the lobby. (If Jews believed in hell we would probably burn in it, but hey, with the exception of some cool Old Testament thoughts on the afterlife, we figured we were golden.)

It was on.

I ended up, after losing a dare, shoved into the arms of a decent-looking, dark-haired bar-mitzvahed boy (well, I suppose I should say man?) named Edmund. Our instruction from bossy Deirdre Greenburg was simple: don’t come back until you’ve tongued.

Hand in hand, we walked down the hall. He was kinda cute, I had to admit. As we shuffled to our doom, hearts beating louder than footsteps, I asked him shyly, “Have you ever done this before?”

He stopped, leaned against the wall, one arm around my waist, gently pulling me toward him. He put his hand on my cheek in a soft caress, drawing my mouth toward his. I tried to quiet the thoughts racing through my head as our tongues met and began to touch.

It was electric. I could feel a jolt course through my body, a heat I had never experienced before. The sensation so intense; it seemed as if I had just felt the earth move beneath my feet. My head began to spin. It was a good thing he was holding on to me, as I think I began to fall a little.

He pulled back, a satisfied smile on his face as he answered, “I have now.”

My sister stared at me, open-mouthed. “Lucky duck,” her response. “My first kiss made me want to throw up in my milk can.”

I hope you enjoyed this story. Please leave your comment below or share this post on Twitter or Facebook. Are you following me here? *puppy dog eyes* Or subscribing to my feed?

You can also purchase my eBook A Walk In The Snark (no Kindle required) on Amazon for only $2.99. It’s funny, poignant, and has received lots of 5/5 star reviews. Go on. You know you wanna.

Need more proof? Read about me here in the Huffington Post. Yea, baby.


One Comment
  1. My first kiss came courtesy of Sammy Davis, Jr.  when I was 12 years old.  I told him it was “fascinating” and to some extent, it was.  🙂

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: