I was 13 when it happened. We were camping in the back yard, in our sleeping bags. Amir, my best friend, turned out the torch. As he snuggled down, he leant over, said goodnight, and kissed me – smack on the lips. I was taken by surprise. In shock, I lay there as his tongue prised open my teeth, entered my mouth, and caressed my own tongue. It might have been seconds; but it seemed like forever. Then he was gone. My breathing was uneven, my heart was beating fast, I was sweating, and I had a boner so hard that it hurt. I don’t think I slept much that night while Amir snored beside me.
We never spoke of it; ever.
Eventually, we went our separate ways; Amir to university embracing the sexual revolution; me to an apprenticeship, marrying my first girlfriend, and raising a family in suburbia. But the memory of that first kiss was burned into my brain. When I couldn’t get an erection with my wife, all I had to do was think of that moment.
I learned that Amir was in hospital, dying of AIDS. We both knew that he had little time left. He could barely speak. I finally told him about the effects of his kiss. I think I saw a brief smile. I said my goodbyes and turned to leave. An impulse took me. I turned back to his bed and amongst all the tubes and medical paraphernalia I found his thin, narrow lips. I returned that kiss with interest. In a hoarse whisper he said, “Don’t waste it.”
Now, as my own time draws to a close, I look back and remember Amir. My new partner kisses well but, as wonderful as he is, that first kiss takes some beating.