She was my first girlfriend, I suppose. If so, she was certainly the shortest-lasting. Our relationship had begun a day or two before then evaporated shortly after the kiss.
Ellen was the daughter of a well-known photographer that shot for children’s books from his plane; extremely cool to a young man that wished he could fly. I was, perhaps, 12.
I convinced Ellen to take a walk with me; we headed to the jetty at Georgica Beach in East Hampton. The mood was perfect: it was off-season and the beach was empty, the grey water thrashing and slamming against the rocks. We kept warm in our puffy down jackets.
I went in for the first kiss.
I was thrilled.
Next up: a kiss with my mouth opening, tongue exploring just what, exactly, was what. Unfortunately, we weren’t on the same page, and my tongue hit her clenched teeth.
“No Frenching yet,” she told me.
I always did push my luck.