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Monday, September 10, 2007


My first kiss was with a girl called Stella Hackett.

We were friends merely through convenient location rather than anything in common; her house was right next to the bus stop, the unofficial marker that indicated the furthest I was allowed to play from my house. Though as time wore on I came to realise that Stella was somewhat free with her affections with any of the local lads who happened to be passing - something that I myself would be emulating a few years down the line. So perhaps it was more a kindred spirit I saw through those pebble glasses of hers at my tender age of six.

I forget how it came about - though Stella was somewhat older than me, and thusly far more worldly wise and knew words like 'pre-cum' and 'mimsy' and so became the authoritarian on all matters to do with sex. She'd probably offered to teach me in order to stop me playing with her Perriot dolls for once. Of course I was instantly resistant and scared of getting something hideous, especially as girls at that age are considered somewhat "ewww!" (a steadfast mantra I've clearly carried on with for the rest of my life). She announced that "Germs was a man who tried to kill Jesus" and that's why they had a bad reputation and didn't actually exist. All in all, it was a somewhat elaborate method of getting the chewing gum I was currently mawling about my mouth. She duly took it in her own, passed it about her misshapen teeth and passed it back.

I don't remember the kiss itself. Clearly I've blanked it from my mind in the manner of victims of assult. But I remember breaking away from her and she announcing "Yes, now we do it with more tongue." More tongue, I thought? As it was she was like an electric eel probing around what were probably my milk teeth. I doubtless made some excuse and skipped off home to rearrange the furniture in my Big Yellow Teapot.

The thing is, while I was up the top of the garden, my sister was down the bottom engaged in similar activity with Stella's younger brother Neil. I'm sure my sister won't mind me saying - and she's even less likely to find out as she doesn't read this dastardly pink website. In fact, she doesn't want to read full-stop; not that she can't, she just doesn't bother. Two Jehovah's Witnesses called upon her once and tried to convert her, trying to hand over a Bible for her to digest. She just looked agog and asked them whether it was on DVD yet.

Anyway. There's the natural curiosity at that age, and even back then at that junior age I seemed to want to see what Neil had to offer more than Stella's tonsil-tickling sessions. The 'You show me yours and I'll show you mine" saying was banded about a few times to Neil and he seemed more than happy to flaunt his wares to me behind their garage, with an interesting caveat: he also wanted to see my arse as well. For some reason this completely befuddled my tiny brain and thought much better of it, shying away from both aspects. Clearly this has completely reversed these days and if any gentleman caller shows the slightest bit of interest I'll present like a mandrill. But at the time, you know, I think I was a little prudish about the whole thing. How odd to think that. I never got to see what Neil was hiding down his bri-nylon school slacks, more's the pity.

About that time, my parents put their first foot on the property ladder and we moved away from Stella, her Pierrot dolls, bus stop and apparent germ-free life shortly after that, and we never spoke again. By the next time I heard her name - in my new school's History class some eight years later - I'd almost forgotten of her existence. Two lads to my right were asking in a low voice who they would shag if they had to out of Sharon, the dumpy girl with the lazy eye, or Madelaine, the outcast Jehovah's Witness who smelled of urine and biscuits. When the poor unfortunate lass was chosen - with the obligatory "ewww!" - they then ranked the 'winner' against her or the apparently more vile Stella Hackett.

My ears pricked up at the name; it transpired that Stella hadn't changed her ways. Indeed, her new mission in life was entertaining lads who would get wasted at the local pub and come a-knocking on Stella's door after closing time to relieve themselves. In fact, she was so indiscriminate and welcoming to more than one lad after the next that her aforementioned mimsy was said to have been like a bill sticker's bucket after a good Friday night. Saturday nights were even worse and I imagine on a Sunday morning the act of her uncrossing her legs was somewhat akin to pulling apart a toasted cheese sandwich.

They caught me ear-wigging, and one of the lads said "Would you shag Stella then, Binding?" with a cruel inflection. I opened my mouth, unsure what to say. If I said no, they'd accuse me of being gay - again. If I said yes, I'd be branded a fool for sticking my member in something that was clearly as safe as a bee's nest. I wrestled this around my head for a while before I was shot down anyway: "Forget it," said one lad, name now lost to me as much as my virginity. "He wouldn't know what to do with it."

Which I thought was rather harsh. And somewhat incorrect: I had been enjoying a somewhat fruity relationship with a boy the year below me for a good couple of months.

But that, my dears, is a whole other story.


Inexplicable DeVice said...

Well, there's another item of foodstuff ruined.

Goodbye toasted cheese sandwich. May our paths never cross again.

Vampire Librarian said...

Great story, except my grandma's name is Stella. Thank goodness she's dead because now I wouldn't be able to look her in the eye.

Anon Dirty said...

Did you change their names? I Googled, just in case.