Keeley Schroder February Challenge
February Challenge (Day Seventeen)
First Romantic Kiss.
Day 17: First romantic kiss.
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sebastian Olivier-Kelmscott.
I am a toad, horny, and ready to croak.
The toad from the fairy-tale? No, what a crock of shit. Oh sure, my pals tried goading me into it, let some weirdo princesses kiss me. Not me, no way. I’m happy being a toad. Princesses can go and find some other damp and slimy creature to change their wonderful world of sadness. All those human hopes and regrets. I won’t be a disrespected toad. Let a pathetic maiden kiss me? Allowing me what? Entry into the ravings of selfish hearts? Oh, the sweet stupidity of mortals.
That’s a story I could write, but it wouldn’t really be who I was as a teenager. I believed that a kiss was the pathway to a grope. Mostly it was, and having filled my hands with sumptuous softness I wasn’t that interested in the art of kissing. Theresa Dillion said I had rough hands. The result of handling ropes and sailing. Barbera Pegler told me I had a needle-dick. The first tongue in my throat was Susan Rafferty’s. (Remember her? The tooth girl.)
The boys I grew up with knew nothing of the things I knew. I went to church with my parents on Sunday mornings and listened to the preacher tell me about sins and other intriguing possibilities. After church we were free to roam until lunch, which was always mid-day.
I had to make the promise not to dirty my ‘church’ clothes and be on time for lunch and, when promised, was set free.
It’s hard to describe freedom. For me it was the fields of wheat beside the yellow lanes that turned, buckled, and disappeared round curves on the way to my beloved ocean. Come December the pale days and falling snow hid the lane, but I knew every inch of it by the twigs of life visibly poking through the white sheet of winter.
The barn, on Alex McClintock’s land, at the top of the hill, stood like a gravestone against the sky, the cabbage-colored moss spreading itself between the cracks of its stone walls. Built more than a hundred years ago, the dark, dank smell of fallen stone and growing moss is reminiscent of the years passing. Cobwebs displayed themselves in grotesque mysteries in the corners that were left standing. The roof had finally given in, a rotting mass of wood under moss and slate. I can see myself back then, still smell Susan’s dampness on my fingers, a mixture of soil, and the secret scent of eroticism.
One wonders now if thirteen was a little too tender age to learn very much at all about biology. In my innocence, I considered touching a girl a journey into my own courage.
We had walked away from the town of Tobermory, into the pastures and toward the old barn holding hands.
Once in the barn Susan kissed me, using her tongue, polishing my teeth, even though I had a gap, and then Susan roughly pulled at my zipper and grabbed at my teenage penis. Even in this height of excitement I wondered why her eyes never opened wider, and why the blue in them never looked at me for longer than a few seconds of desire.
It was rough play, lasting a couple of minutes for fear of being caught by a passerby. It just seemed, well, exciting and mysterious. That amazing kiss left me helpless, seriously. I had never experienced anything close to it.
Susan left the village weeks later, though I never touched her again.
I did eventually find the love I searched hopelessly for there in that soil, but she, too, left my life in ruins, half built, unfinished. But that’s a story you know.
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Keeley Schroder, The Sturg, Autistic Widower (“AJ”), Karen Schwartz, Adrienne Beaumont, Bernie Pullen, NancyO, Robert G. Longpré, Katie Michaelson, Vidya Sury, Collecting Smiles, Brett Jenae Tomlin, redkitewrites, Richard Bailey, Marilyn Flower, Laure Dorsemaine, Debika Kumari, Julie KingGood, Michelle Jimerson Morris, Celia McKinley, Pamela Oglesby, Charisse Tyson, Amy Frances, Ravyne Hawke, Toni the Talker, Cathy Cremer, Harry Hogg, Kayla Tackett, Julia A. Keirns, Courtney Capone, Anna Itzel Cazita, K. Joseph
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