I was four years old when I met One. I began preschool at the church just beyond my backyard of my first house in Hamilton, New Jersey. He was my neighbor and our parents took turns babysitting the other’s children. He had a best friend, Two, who suffers from chronic jealousy. I know this because…well, that comes back later on. Be patient with me.
When we were at preschool, playing outside in the sandbox or playing with toys on the multicolored rugs inside, I wanted to be around him. His presence was necessary but I was far too young to understand “personal space” as a concept. I would follow One around and Two would grow red in the face, screaming,
“Get away from my best friend! He’s mine!”
That stress of possession infuriated me but simultaneously meant little at the time. I tried not to be bothered by those little moments of superiority and inferiority but later on in life they would greatly affect me. He was at least my friend and I could hold on to that. I held on to that for dear life, and to him, for far longer than I will eventually admit to. I suppose I will admit to it in a decade or two…
Although I cannot vividly recall our first kiss, both of our parents have reminded and ridiculed us for it. As the story goes, I used to push One against the wall at preschool and kiss him. And I did this often, even so much to develop a habit worth a phone call to my mother, and her scolding me about it when she picked me up at the end of the day. In retrospect, I realize that my first kiss was probably not even consensual. Could that be telling of my eventual discovery of a small exhibitionist fetish? Maybe. But most likely not. I like to account this to general first kisses across the board. They’re typically horrendous.
We all lived near each other. One night, I had gotten out of the shower and was just in my towel. When my mom and I walked into my room, I looked out the window to see One. There he was, on a lovely night stroll with his family and Two was with them. For a yet to be understood reason, I felt the need for One to see me, but I didn’t do just that. I let him, and everyone else on our busy street see all of me. I opened the window, my towel dropped, and I screamed “HELLO” at the top of my four year old little lungs. I will never forget the sight of his mother covering his eyes and my mom yanking me back into the private safety of my bedroom. Standard four year old behavior, right?
The interesting part of this isn’t that I did it. It’s that I have no idea what made me want to do these things. I didn’t grow up watching my parents act inappropriately so how did I even know I could push a boy against an exposed brick wall and kiss him on the mouth? My mom would probably say my towel dropped by accident but now looking back, I have reasons to believe that I intended that to happen exactly how it did. I can easily blame this on being a four year old with a crush but I suspect everything will add up to something larger in the end. This is merely the corner piece to the entire puzzle. Honestly, I never interpret things easily.
I didn’t see One after preschool until once in passing or what I should call an intentional drive-by when I was 18. Okay, drive-by sounds more harmful. I was the one hurt by that experience. My first kiss, be it unofficial and not necessarily consented, happened when I was four. This is something I’ve always been proud of but I am no longer sure if that is either good or bad.
Up next: Three
