Monday, 23 May 2011
The Snog Of Doom
I was 13 years old. I had consumed half a plastic cup of cider. I was, to put it mildly, a bit lashed. This was my first house party, and the place was teeming with school mates. Combine alcohol, hormones, and bad 80's music and it was only a matter of time before the smooch fest started. I'm pretty sure it wasn't me that got the ball rolling, but thanks to Dutch courage I had no intention of missing out. It started well enough; nothing too traumatic. Only then I was confronted by a pretty blonde girl called Louise. Whether I jumped her or she jumped me I do not recall, but the kiss itself was a shock. It wasn't just that she used her tongue; it was more like she assaulted me with it. There I was expecting a run of the mill smooch, when suddenly there's this seemingly endless appendage heading down my throat. I immediately felt like John Hurt in the first Alien movie; that scene when the Face Hugger smothers him. Not that I object to a bit of face smothering these days, but this incident was terrifying. Anyway, whilst her tongue was navigating my lower intestine I was kind of just clinging on. I expect I was cross eyed and was probably red due to lack of oxygen. Just how long was this going to last? Eventually the violation ceased, her tongue emerging with my tonsils in tow. I probably stumbled away, lost for words, and disappeared into a dark corner to whimper like a baby. That was my first experience of French Kissing. Happily, as I learned the art over the ensuing years I came to understand that it doesn't have to end in tears. But please, be gentle with me. I startle easily. And if you do remove any internal organs please be so kind as to put them back!