My First Lip Kiss

All love begins with a pursuit. Meditate a moment on pursuing a potential lover. The apple of your eye. Some courting might be involved; a period of wooing. Moving later, to gentle and well-phrased coersion. Walking hand-in-hand under the moon. A steadily, sensuous advance. Upon closer inspection, I have found Pursuit to be more forward. Pushy. Pictorally, he would resemble the Greek god Priapus: fully erect and chasing his female desirable until she must rescued by wood nymphs. I offer another image: The fore fathers penning the infamous Life, Liberty, and Pursuit of Happiness. One hand is rapidly composing the manifesto, while the other impatiently holds an eager gun. Ready to hunt happiness down and get a piece. It's no accident I compare these images: an erection and a rifle. For I want it to be clear, Love's Pursuit is not the dreamy, romantic striving, but a more aggressive chase. It follows, that in my picture of Pursuit, running could be expected.

In the third grade I was diligently pursued by an obese boy who could pick his nose with his tongue. You think it's an exaggeration, and I wish I could tell you it was. The fact is, he could be counted on to have a free-flowing river of snot cascading down his upper lip at any given moment. Every so often he’d lash his tongue out to clear the way for more mucosa. An upper lip can only accomadate so much, you know.

Recess. A time to run free and hard. In the playground, Love's Pursuit drove throngs of eight-year-olds divided in gendered groups, to chase each other. Obsessively. And with the kind of exuberant joy that is born of teetering on the edge of eminent danger. For forty-five minutes all you could hear were high-pitched squeals. Masses of little girls would sprint after the boys, suceeding in taking a few hostages. The hostages would be locked up beneath the monkey bars. In response, the males would band together in the name of freedom, and turn the tables; sending the front lines out to run after the girls. On one such chasing mission, I was hunted down by the bugger-eating fatty. I squealed like I never had before, and haven't since. The thought of his faucet protuberant terrified me. So, as hard as my little legs would let me, I ran. I ran and ran. But, alas, I could not hold my lead and was caught! The horror! As per the terms of my imprisonment, I promptly received a wet and sticky kiss on the lips. The very first kiss of my life.

There were more annoying, and equally gross boys that pursued me throughout elementary school. There were more wet, ill-placed, and predatory kisses. I thanked each show of affection with a swift kick to the groin. Of course, I had no idea the potential damage I could do by assaulting a developing scrotom with my sneaker. I reveled in the dread on boys faces when I threatened them with the possibility. Kicks to the Balls got me the best reaction. And were most likely to thwart an unwanted smooch, and send Pursuit in search of other prey.