Never Kiss on a Cold Day

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In tenth grade, I had a lunchtime booty call, of sorts. It didn’t end well. This is the story of messy pubescent energy. One of my many escapades that wasn’t like the movies.

First, you need to know, I had history with the girl. We’ll call her Jewel. She went to a different elementary school but I met her through a classmate of mine. In seventh grade, our dance started exactly where it should have: MSN Messenger. Whew, did I know how to flirt on MSN. Our chatting led to me coming to watch a couple of her soccer games, then eventually a movie date. Oh baby. Except my classmate (Jewel’s best friend) accompanied us with another boy and they sat behind us the whole time. She kept leaning forward and asking how the date was going. Still, one fake yawn later, and I had my arm around Jewel. Spicy. I may have even kissed her, I can’t recall. Where did our blossoming relationship go from there? Now that the ball was rolling, what became of it? Nothing. Fizzled out. Our MSN communications came to a halt and she got a boyfriend.

Now, November of tenth grade: Jewel and I were going to the same high school. She had broken up with her eight and ninth grade boyfriend. She was single and still very cute, but had now begun talking to an eleventh grader. In fact, she was only a few days into talking to him when there was a house party both Jewel and I attended, and the other boy wasn’t there. I had a great night talking to her, and without it being my intention, it seemed I won her favour. My condolences to the eleventh grader; Jewel and I were back in business.

A common romantic move at my high school was to go on lunch dates to nearby restaurants in the downtown area. So in the days following the party, Jewel and I made plans to do a version of that. You see, Jewel was still best friends with my classmate, and that was both good and bad. Good because my classmate happened to live a short walk from the high school, and bad because she was still nosy and over-the-top. I met Jewel at her locker and we walked through the halls to my classmate’s locker. There, we were handed her house key, along with a series of giggles and phrases regarding the mischief Jewel and I were attempting. A lunchtime booty call, I told you.

Jewel and I walked the sidewalk south from our school to the house. I remember I wore a black pea coat. Snow was on the ground, the air was sharply cold, but it was otherwise a nice day. I was nervous as hell, I’m sure. It was a pretty ridiculous plan. Our lunch period was 75 minutes long, and we’d already burnt 25 of them getting there. Inside, it was a nice bungalow but I had a hard time feeling comfortable because of the circumstances. Sure, Jewel had been there countless times, but it didn’t mean I was welcome. Also, my classmate had left a number of notes addressed to us, including a condom on the bed, which did nothing but throw off the mood — if there even was one. Jewel and I sat on the couch. I still remember what I said before I leaned in to start kissing her: “I’m not making the same mistake I made on the weekend.” Referring to the party. Ugh. The things that stay with us.

Now here is the true crux of this tale. It was November. Probably -10 degrees Celsius outside. We’d only been inside for a couple of minutes. What natural bodily function occurs when you exit the cold in the winter? Snot. Jewel’s and my nose were running. It took a moment of passion before I was mentally recoiling. Too nervous to offer her a tissue, too nervous to grab one myself, and too tight on time overall. I think we wiped our faces on our sleeves, but the whole attempt at getting the ball rolling could only be described as sloppy. Just clumsy sexual energies squishing against each other. We rode out our time kissing, then walked home. Another failure with Jewel — the one that got away, came back, then rubbed mucus all over my upper lip.

That’s how it goes at fifteen.

You’re welcome,

B.F. Greeno, aka
The Slimy Smoocher

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Benny Greeno

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