Dream Girl

The stale scent of cigarettes lingered on your breath, and the smell coated your tongue, almost tasting like an ashtray, but I couldn’t be the only one who hadn’t kissed a boy. We often met in secret so that our parents wouldn’t pass by. It wasn’t long till our lips touched and our tongues collided. You said I was a good kisser, but the only thoughts that surpassed me were if my mom would smell the smoke. We met every day after school. Our lips would engage in conversational kisses and slight body frisks. Your hand wandered off to my breast. I wondered if this had to make me feel good. But you seemed to get satisfaction from it, and I guess that made it okay at the time. I couldn’t help but remember my dream girl, the one I shared my first kiss. Our friendship was intimate and curious. But who am I kidding? We were kids who kissed badly and touched each other on the hips, and sometimes our bodies would collide. The adrenaline from an unlocked door and a mother who would, in shock, ban me from being her friend. We were young, naive and confused. She had gorgeous lips that glistened when she used my favourite lipgloss. We were friends. We didn’t know our friendship would become a series of intimate moments. We shared our first kiss in her bedroom. It overlooked the porch, and at any moment, her mom would have caught us. Her pink and bright room resembled her innocent, playful, and nurturing side. Yet a burning passion and romance ensued. We spoke and played, but my mind could only wander off to what it would feel like to kiss her. Little did I know she felt the same. We played in her room a lot with toys and teddy bears. But that day, our lips played with each other. We shared our first kiss, and embarrassingly laughing, we stopped, then passionately engaged in somewhat terrible but warm kisses. Her lips were soft, flavoured, and her body lithesome. “Your mind is elsewhere,” my kisser says in concern, and my mind returns to the picture. I realised that, even though this boy’s kisses were good, they didn’t feel as intimate as when I first kissed my dream girl. She acted like she didn’t remember me years later when she came from boarding school. Her eyes hid the story untold, and our friendship wasn’t the same. She’s still my dream girl, wherever she is.

~Shantey Moabelo