Truth be told, it was my big brother.
Yah. Not what an adolescent typically dreams about, but it’s what happened. My big bro decided that I was “practice material,” and used to climb through my bedroom window to do just that. A lot. I guess he was getting ready for a marathon.
In fact, he was.
It was excruciating, to say the least. I was disgusted, but he was a lot bigger than I was. I was eleven or twelve. Memory fades when you’re 65 but I do recall the sordid details, if not my exact age. That’s how I began my sex life.
Keeping in the family, as it were.
My parents had friends from Texas. The wife was a rotund redhead, wonderfully outspoken. One year she and her son Steve, who was a few years older than I was, came to visit us on our farm in Florida. We had thousands of chickens. One of the tin-roofed houses had biddies — very young chickens — suspended over the ground in wire cages. There was a long concrete walkway that cut through the middle of the biddie house.
It stank in there, of chicken shit, feathers, of blood and death.
Not what you might call a romantic spot. I was just showing this kid around the farm. I have no idea what was on this kid’s mind but that’s where Steve decided to give a kiss a shot.
I was all of thirteen by then, having been practiced on by my big brother. We were walking through the biddie house when suddenly Steve grabbed my arm, spun me around and planted his mouth on mine.
My nose was full of chicken shit, feathers and dust. Steve jammed his tongue down my throat with all the delicacy of a bulldozer.
All I could register at the time was the fact that at least I wasn’t kissing my big brother, so I guess things were looking up. Not smelling so good, but at least some improvement. It was hard to breathe, though, and what I could breathe in stank pretty badly.
When Steve decided to come up for breath, he backed up and took a long look at me.
“You kiss pretty well. For a girl,” he intoned with all the worldliness of a 15-year-old Texas kid in 1968.
I pondered that.
I wondered who else (or what else) he’d kissed. Maybe Steve had a little brother. That seemed reasonable. Maybe he had animals. Less reasonable, but after all he was inspired to kiss me in one of the rankest places imaginable.
Made sense. I had no idea. I was 13. My kissing experience had been limited to the family tree. Here was some kid from the exotic state of Texas telling me that I was a good kisser.
For a girl.
I filed that away for future reference.
At the time I was vastly more interested in horses than boys ( a preference you can blame on my big brother) so I wasn’t motivated to continue further exploration. Boys were invasive, messy and demanding. Horses smelled better, and besides, they minded, most of the time. At least they had the decency not to climb through my bedroom window if they wanted affection.
It was years before I had any notion of romance, given that my choices of reading materials were books like The Black Stallion series by Walter Farley and any book with a dog in it. Animals were ever so much more interesting. I liked getting kissed by animals. Especially dogs; it’s how they bond.
I was nineteen before I got kissed by someone who had a clue about what he was doing. By that time I’d left home, left my horses behind and was already making my way in the world.
He kissed pretty well.
For a boy.