I have no idea what made me think of my first kiss recently, but now I can’t stop thinking about it. And not in a good way.

To set this up properly, here’s a picture of me from the First Kiss Era.

I’m pretty sure I was 14 when the kiss happened (although we all know my memory is Brian Williams-caliber terrible) and I think his name was Mike. We met at the mall where my friends and I would try on Z Cavaricci jeans, loiter and try to flirt with boys for hours.

I owned these jeans

Mike and I didn’t go to the same high school and neither of us was old enough to drive so my mother drove me to meet Mike at the theater. He picked some bizarre Alice Cooper movie and I was so excited to be going on an actual date that I didn’t object.

During the movie, Mike did all of the cliché things like pretending to stretch so he could put his arm around me. I was nervous but charmed. After the movie, we went outside to wait for Mike’s dad, who would drive me home. And that was of course when The Kiss happened.

I had already had my gentle introduction to kissing in sixth grade (story here). This was nothing like that experience. Instead, it was more like…well…a giant octopus tentacle flopping around in my mouth. I was shocked and horrified.

My guess is that the only two words I said on the ride home – to Mike or his father – were ‘thank you.’ I never did speak to Mike again. Oh, he called. But I dodged. I told Mom and Dad to say I wasn’t home each time. I wanted to ensure there would be no repeat of the frightening kiss experience. For a year, I kept high school guys at arms’ length, literally.

With time and a guy far more interesting than Mike, I came around on the kissing thing. But it took me even longer to speak up on my movie preferences. My next first date after Mike was to see Die Hard 2. Oy.