French Kissing for Americans

I didn’t close my eyes. Why the hell didn’t I close my eyes?

It was summer 2022. It was hot and sticky and gross and my blonde bangs were cemented to my forehead. A weekly gathering of both the boys and girls camps brought new possibilities and an unfamiliar, overwhelming smell of too much Axe body spray and too much testosterone. The girls all lined up on the bunk floor to wait and have their hair braided or straightened or curled, their false lashes glued and their blush blended by the counselors. We took photos on our disposable cameras and blasted Chris Brown on Logan Goldstein’s light blue JBL speaker. The evening was warm, and camp smelled like sulfur and burnt firewood from the previous night’s campfire. The pack of 14-year-old girls practically stampeded to the field adjacent to the rec hall, so eager to set eyes on a boy their own age after spending every waking moment surrounded by other girls. I remember the early sunset of the 7 p.m. evening. It was lightly purple and multicolored but it wasn’t yet late enough for the orange and yellow shades to ombre the sky. I spotted him from across the herd of pubescent, early teenagers. Much blonder and much taller than the rest: he was the one. 

The summer’s “socials”– where the boys and girls awkwardly mingled for an hour or so– only began after the third week. Three weeks ensured that the girls all had plans to “hook up” with the cutest guy, and three weeks ensured that the boys were definitely horny enough to kiss whichever girl came their way. I myself had been talking about “the boy” for weeks. I didn’t know who he was yet, just that I was absolutely determined for there to be one for me. I had never kissed a boy. I had never even come close to kissing a boy. For years I’d obsess and crush. I wrote love letters upon love letters, always left unsent. I’d do myself up and hope when I paraded myself around the school halls and past the classroom of the boy whose schedule I’d strategically memorized, he’d notice. My delusions turned into fantasies, and I didn’t understand the feeling of being desired, being wanted. I was always told that the boys who were mean to me liked me and that the girls who were mean to me were just jealous of me. It didn’t occur to me that my freakish obsessions and spells of quick lasting love were grown out of the subtraction of any and all affection of the male kind, not the amount of love my mom claimed for me to have in my heart.

And so, when I was approached by this boy, I was wearing the tightest push-up-bra I owned in the 9th grade, a tank top that showed off my belly button, and shorts that were definitely way too short. His golden hair glistened in the fading light of the Saturday evening sun. He towered over me and when he spoke. I swear I was enchanted. An incredibly thick French accent and a hard-to-decipher lexicon of broken English swept me off my Croc-ed feet. We chatted for a little while; he told me about surfing on the coast and tapas served on the sand. Small talk was surprisingly harder to make when there was a language barrier as big as this one. After he decided enough conversation had been had, his clammy hand grabbed mine, and he led me to the bunks on the end of the field. We walked, slowly, together, staring at the sky. I looked over my shoulder, the group of every single camper and counselor with their heads turned towards us. The girls grinning cynically and the boys making obscene gestures towards the boy.

The girls had been given a talk beforehand: no inappropriate touching with any of the boys. Kissing was okay, but no other contact of any kind. We weren’t allowed to bring anyone inside a building or go too far outside of the counselor’s vision. No time spent away from the group could be longer than about 5 minutes. So, it was kind of a scandal for the two of us to so confidently march our way behind the nearest bunk with only one intention. I was god-awfully nervous. I didn’t know what I was doing! 

What if he French kisses me! What is French kissing? Is it French? Oh god, he’s French! What if he wants to French me! Am I supposed to use my tongue? Ew, how am I supposed to use my tongue? Why would I ever want to use tongue?

My worries were slightly put to rest when he (illegal to the spoken law of the social) put his arms around me. It was nice being embraced. I had never been embraced like this before. I had never felt the romantic touch of a boy, a romantic interest, and I had never expected the first guy to do it to be French! We stood in between two dark brown wooden bunks, the exteriors of which were peeling and obviously weathered from years of bad weather and many a hook-up. A generator hummed alongside the sweet sound of the summer birds and the soft cry of the tree branches in the wind. A distant chatter of voices from the girls and boys in the near distance. We knew we didn’t have a long time. Someone, a counselor, would come get us soon. We weren’t supposed to be away, alone, for too long. He put his hands on either side of my face and pulled me closer to him. He closed his eyes and leaned in. 

15… 14… 13… 12… 11…

I don’t remember much after that. I remember that it was wet and slobbery and nothing like I had imagined. I remembered the unusual and unexpected presence of his tongue. I remember the smell of sunscreen and I remember my eyes, wide open, staring very closely at the freckles that decorated his tanned cheeks. 

What the fuck? Is Kylie counting down? Is she watching? Can she tell this is my first kiss? God I hope she doesn't know this is my first kiss. 

We continued with our explicit behavior – the only things touching were our lips and hands –  and my counselor, Kylie, counted down.

10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5…

I was so utterly embarrassed. Like in elementary school when you did something bad like call a girl ugly and your mom would yank you away from your friends by your wrist. The kind of embarrassment that leaves you to do nothing else but gaze at your shoes for the next long while. Safe to say, I was mortified. I didn’t understand why he didn’t stop, I wanted to, given the situation, but his tongue was too far down my throat to do anything about it. I didn’t understand why my counselor was so pervy and would watch two little kids kiss. I didn’t understand why I didn’t feel anything. Wasn’t there supposed to be like fireworks or confetti or something? I didn’t feel any older, or prettier, or like I had achieved any greatness. I just felt plain. And very disgusted.

4… 3… 2… 1…

We walked back together, him looking proud and full of his stupid French self, me with my face bright red. I was greeted with winks and eyebrow raises, he with dap-ups and slaps on the back. We never did speak again. 

At the end of the summer, the counselors read aloud a page of quotes and notes they had compiled amongst themselves across the seven weeks to the whole bunk– to remember the summer’s many twists and turns.

“Remy was the only girl to hook-up – and forgot to close her eyes.”