As Valentine's Day neared, we asked you to describe your most memorable kiss - the one that buzzed with electricity or lay there like a dead perch. Oh my, did you ever deliver.
[Times illustrations by Don Morris] |
 © St. Petersburg Times, published February 13, 2001 The new ice rink was inside Lakeforest Mall. The front wall was a window facing the food court. The back wall was lined with lockers. Every Saturday, all fall, my mom had been taking me and my sister there. While Mom shopped at Sears, we learned sit-spins and flying camels and double toe-loops. I met David. He was a rink guard: 6-foot-2, with long, honey-colored curls like Leif Garrett, a beard beginning to sprout from his square jaw, round eyes as green as Astroturf. He played goalie on his high school hockey team, played James Taylor on his Gibson guitar, drove an orange '72 Duster with a black blower. He was 18. I was 13. He got a 10-minute break every two hours. One Saturday in late December, while the Zamboni scraped snow off the scarred ice, David bought me a Coke. We walked past the Ms. Pac-Man game, sat beside the lockers. The bleachers were cold through my Calvins. David's lips were warm and chapped. He smelled like sweat and Polo cologne and Big Red. He opened my mouth with his tongue. Why was it there? What was I supposed to do with it? Where was my own supposed to go, while his was filling my mouth? I moved mine aside, glad I hadn't worn my retainer. Stairway to Heaven started blaring through the rink speakers. Now, that's a long song. And the kiss would have lasted all seven minutes, I'm sure. Except Mom likes hot pretzels. And right at that moment, she was buying a saltless one in the food court, walking over to the window wall to watch her daughters skate. My sister was spinning in the center. I was still smooching. Mom dropped her Sears bags and her pretzel, whipped open the rink door, made a beeline for the bleachers. Above the din of Led Zeppelin, she screamed, "LANE ERIN THOMASSON!' A hundred skaters turned to see. "Lane,' David whispered. "So that's your name.' * * * At age 79 I knew better, but after two years of loneliness I began to get that old feeling again. I was properly introduced to a lovely lady, only to find that she was prim, sedate and reserved. To my surprise she accepted a date. Date 1: The door hit me in the rear as I left. Date 2: I got a pat on the cheek. Date 3: We had dinner, danced, had some wine, and I took her home. We walked to her door. She promptly pinched me on the tush, bent me backward and laid those soft lips on me until I melted. We will be married in June. * * * My first kiss took place in the Tyrone Mall Cinema 6, watching the movie Bait with the finest girl in the neighborhood. She was about 5 feet 9 inches, fair-skinned, very sweet and pretty. I saw people watching the movie. I heard people laughing, the door squeaking and closing and people coughing. I tasted popcorn, soda and hot dogs. I smelled strawberry-kiwi perfume. Then it happened; we kissed. This kiss was so tender it made me a sinner. I'm touching her back while her hands are around my neck. "Wow,' I said, "that was a great kiss.' She replied, "Well, what can I say?' * * * Last year was a rough one for me. My husband told me he was in love with someone else and wanted a divorce. When I first met him at age 17, I had only kissed a handful of boys, and in the 20 years we had been together, had never kissed another man. After a few months as a single woman, I met someone who was also going through a divorce. On our first date, after dinner, I suggested a walk on the beach. We held hands, then he casually put his arm around me. I knew this was it -- my first new kiss in 20 years. It felt so wonderful . . . romantic, a little bit illicit, different (I wasn't used to a guy with a mustache and beard) and very exciting. It gave me hope that there is indeed life after divorce. * * * On January 19, 1945, I kissed my mother goodbye. That was our last kiss. I miss her. * * * Kenny gave me my first kiss. He was 6 years old and I was 5. it was after a "date' his mother took us on. She bought us cones at the Dairy Queen. Then we watched his big sister's fire baton practice. To wrap our date up, we borrowed two pair of his father's rubber fishing pants and caught tadpoles in the ditch at the front of his house. After we counted our "catch,' Kenny said he wanted to kiss like the poets do. I said okay. Then he picked a long dried piece of grass from his yard. Kenny put one end in his mouth. I put the other in my mouth. Then we sat there for a very long time. I finally asked if that was it and he said yes. We both decided kissing was not all it was cracked up to be. * * * We had been out several times with friends, but never by ourselves. Over time we found ourselves "dropping by' each other's houses, as friends do. Our first Valentine's Day came two years ago, and we bought cards for each other. We exchanged them in the doorway of his apartment. I felt like I was in High School all over again, only this was a major improvement. Finally he placed his card in my hand, saying, "Please, just open it.' Written inside in enormous print was "KISS ME.' I did, and we have been ever since. We will be married this September. * * *
We met across the pool. Her beautiful smile and wide, round brown eyes looked back at me from across the water. In a second's time, she ran toward me, falling into my arms. It was love at first sight. It was a juicy kiss, wet and slobbery. I could tell that it was true love, straight from the heart. It was a Valentine's Day dream come true. I gave her one final hug, and then . . . She licked around my mouth and tasted the delicious chocolate-strawberry cake I'd had for dessert. She walked off into the bushes. Puppy love. * * * It happened in New Orleans. Justine, a little theater star, hosted a local midday TV talk show. I escorted her to celebrity-guest soirees. Once, she interviewed singer Frankie Laine. They agreed to meet later at a cocktail party; Frankie would detail a Hollywood acting opportunity. He didn't show. With some sleuthing, we discovered him at the Roosevelt Blue Room. Our waiter twice delivered a note: "Frankie, Come see Justine. Joe.' Nothing. The band began. We danced. A tap on my shoulder. "May I cut in?' Wow! Frankie Laine. I hugged him and kissed his cheek. He withdrew. "Joe, please! What will people say?' * * *
After giving birth I was wheeled back to my room, where I fell asleep. I woke up when the curtains opened and a man dressed in doctor scrubs walked over and kissed me. I was startled, thinking the doctor had given me a congratulatory kiss. He backed up and kept staring at me. Turns out he was the husband of my hospital roommate, who was in delivery at the time. He was so embarrassed he couldn't look at me. He explained what happened and apologized to me. We all had a good laugh. * * * Our first kiss 75 years ago was significant not for what it was, but for what it led to. What it was was an awkward peck good night between two embarrassed 16-year-olds in a small Canadian town. What it led to was a wartime marriage 19 years later and 3,000 miles away in bomb-torn London between a war-weary fire woman of the London Fire Brigade and a sergeant in an armored division of the U.S. Army. That in turn led to 48 years of joys and sorrows, three children and 12 grandchildren. The firefighter has answered her last alarm, but in an old man the memory of that first kiss still burns brightly. * * *
He worked in Tampa, I in St. Petersburg. We had never met but talked daily on the phone. His voice was beautiful, deep, with a timbre that sent shivers down my spine. I dreamed about him at night just because of his voice. Months later I was to go to Tampa for a meeting and dreaded it. We would meet and I knew that one of us would be disappointed. I dressed with care and prayed silently all the way over in the car. We met walking toward one another in the hall. Our eyes locked. We bantered. He was so handsome, taller than I was, with deep brown eyes and a bad boy smile. It was almost time for the meeting to start. "Before we go in,' he said, "did you know you have something in your teeth?' We will be married 10 years this May. * * * On June 28, shortly after noon, Bill, my husband of 13 years, appeared at the door of our den, where I was absorbed in reading a romance -- despite living one each day with him. He was leaving for bowling and asked how I liked his shirt, a basic white with a pink and blue stripe that accentuated his big blue eyes and curly gray hair. I thought he looked terrific. Then he gave me a kiss that would have made Al Gore proud -- it was s-o-o-o long. We hugged again, and he left. Two hours later, Florida Lanes telephoned our home. Bill had had a massive heart attack and cardiac arrest while bowling. The next time I saw him, he was on a respirator at University Hospital where he died 12 days later. I will always remember that kiss. * * * What does a kiss mean to a 19-year-old guy who has never kissed a girl before? He has always been waiting to give a kiss that comes from the bottom of his heart and soul and touches the spirituality of a girl. Sometimes I get jealous looking at anyone who's kissing, but my jealousy is my patience and my patience is my inspiration. Hope this Valentine's Day brings me an opportunity to fulfill all my wishes and hopes with a kiss. * * * My very first romantic kiss was in second grade. Two girls kissed me. It was dismissal time, and I was just waiting for my bus to be called. Lexi and Angelique came to me and asked if they could kiss me. I just said, "Yeah!' Lexi went first. She kissed me on the lips and it lasted about five seconds. Angelique kissed me next. I felt so good after that. These are two of the most beautiful girls in our whole school. I still think they are today. I'm in fifth grade now. * * * Tap, tap, tap. If he doesn't stop tapping his foot on the floor I'm going to scream! I am sitting in an empty theater with the most hyper guy I have ever met. "Do you kiss on the first date?' he asks. "Uh, it depends on the person, but not usually,' I answer. "Have you ever kissed anyone with a tongue ring?' "No.' "Do you want to?' "Do you want an Altoid?' He grabs four, puts them in his mouth and chews them up. CHEWS. Now I am tapping my foot. "I haven't kissed anyone since I got my tongue ring,' he says, coming toward me. His lips touch mine and I try to just give him a peck, but he shoves his tongue in my mouth, the metal ring violently hitting my teeth. "That was cool! You're a good kisser,' he says. I laugh. "Yeah, thanks, are you ready to leave?' * * * I moved from Dover, Del., to Seminole about two weeks ago. My life was a mess up there. I'm 46 years old, been married twice, and am now in love with a woman more than 1,000 miles away. When I left Dover, she promised she would move down if I straighten out my life. Her kiss goodbye meant more to me than anything in this world. I pray that there will be many more kisses to come. * * * It was the end of our first date. As he followed me toward my apartment I couldn't help but wonder if he would kiss me. After several awkward moments he slowly pulled me toward him and took my head in his hands -- but instead of kissing me, he put our faces cheek to cheek for the longest time. Then he said goodbye and left. I stood at my front door, breathless. It was one of the warmest and most romantic and exciting experiences of my life. Several weeks later we shared our first kiss . . . and it was well worth waiting for. * * * It was almost 4 p.m., time for me to leave our Cleveland business and return home. My husband, who was at the office with me, would follow in a couple of hours. We had set up a large, standing safe in such a way that it gave us the privacy to steal a kiss, which we often did. As I left the office that day I hugged and kissed my husband and said goodbye. He never arrived home. He was murdered during an after-hours break-in. Even with the sadness that persists almost 30 years later, I can't help but smile when I think of that last kiss. * * * My Army outfit was sent during World War II to Nashville, Tenn., for maneuvers. My buddy and I stopped in a diner before going back to camp. Three girls were sitting on stools at the counter. We talked to the girls a bit, and they left. The phone rang and the owner said it was for me. I was shocked. It was one of the girls. We dated for about a month. When maneuvers were over, we stood at the gate of my camp saying goodbye. She was crying. She said, "I'll never see you again.' We kissed and I guess I felt it down to my toes. She seemed to put her heart and soul into it. I survived two years of combat, and I did see her again. After 51 years she died, leaving me and five children, 14 grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren. Will I see her again? * * * Every summer I spent a week or two with Mildred and her family. I loved Mildred because she has three older brothers. Amos was my favorite, and we shared many fun times together. Vacations always come to an end. Unexpectedly, Amos asked, "How about a goodbye kiss?' I couldn't reply; my throat and lips were bone-dry. I managed to turn my face toward his. His lips were soft, as they lingered on mine. What ecstasy! The thrilling contact was not long enough, but it was spellbinding while it lasted. I didn't sleep well that night. Tears of joy dampened my pillow. But I knew my dreams had to end. You see, I was only 13 and Amos was my first cousin. This sweet experience of first love helped establish a pattern for other loves. It was a standard to hold high, a memory to cherish. * * * It was the kind of kiss that would make Hollywood drool. We had known each other for months, but only as friends. If she had any feelings for me I didn't know about them. I didn't dare say anything about my feelings for her. One day we went to Fort De Soto Park and sat on the beach. As we talked I turned my head, and it happened. I felt my heart race and my knees go weak as we gently kissed. The smell and taste of her skin released hidden passions and allowed a new life to begin. * * * I was 12, in the seventh grade, and David -- I'm almost sure his name was David -- had taken to waiting for me after school. He carried my books and walked on the outside of the sidewalk. It was a glorious Valentine's Day, as I recall. Crisp and cool, but with the bluest sky and the warmest sun that anyone could ever hope to have on an Arlington, Va., winter afternoon. When we got to my front stoop and I reached for my books, he thrust an envelope at me, blurting "Here, this is for you.' Then, face red, he planted a kiss on my cheek. And retreated down the walkway to the sidewalk. I ran up the stairs to my room and opened the envelope. It was a valentine, the biggest card I'd ever seen, with satin hearts and embossed flowers, white lace and elaborate verse. I read it over and over, and when my mother came into my room, I showed it to her with shy pride. "That's nice, dear,' she said, then put the card on the bed beside me and took my hands. "There's something I have to tell you,' she said quietly, gently. "Your Grampa George died today.' * * * We were juniors in high school. She looked like Doris Day, my favorite singer and pinup. After the "Sweater-Hop' dance, I wanted to kiss her good night but couldn't move. I put my hands in my pockets and discovered a quarter. I thought quickly and said, "Bet you a quarter that I can kiss you without touching you.' She smiled and said, "I bet you can't.' I kissed her. It was wonderful. "You touched me!' she said. "Well,' I said, "here's your quarter.' She gave me a big hug and giggled, saying, "On our next date, you'd better bring your checkbook.' * * * Twenty-one years ago when my husband, Bill, and I were dating, we lingered in my front yard one evening, talking. It was a beautiful, warm night, and we stood by a big orange tree enjoying the smell of the blossoms. He leaned forward to kiss me and I closed my eyes. I heard him say, "Gross!' I felt something cold and wet on my mouth. I opened my eyes and found a green tree frog on my mouth! It had jumped out of the orange tree and landed on my lips! * * * We received about 200 submissions to Kiss and Tell -- far more than we could fit in the pages of Floridian. Here are the memorable kiss stories we couldn't fit in the newspaper: Kiss and Tell, Part II
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