I actually have no memory of my first kiss, so I have to rely on witnesses to fill me in on this event. I do, however, remember what came after the kiss.
Apparently, I was a player from age 3 when I publicly made out with a boy name Ricky on a camping trip. Quite openly, might I add, in front of our family and friends. Ricky was my first kiss, but as I said, my tender and underdeveloped brain failed to document this event. However, everyone else seems to remember it, including Ricky. (I’d like to think I’ve had a “lasting effect” on all the men I’ve kissed.)
I do, however, remember another very specific moment with Ricky. If I’m not mistaken, it was close to a year after our prepubescent lip lock. We attended the same church growing up and so, on most Sundays, we crossed paths there until we were about 18. On this particular Sunday, Ricky summoned up the courage to pick me fresh daffodils from the Church’s front lawn… a sweet gesture. But, I was a careless and tactless little girl, completely fascinated by nature and everything around me. And to be honest, Ricky was not the one. So, I took those daffodils he picked and I crushed them in my tiny little hands, squeezing them dry, depriving them of every petal-juice drop they possessed. I smashed them, right in front of Ricky… I crushed them till there was nothing left… and then I ate some of it. I guess I was curious to know what crushed-up daffodils tasted like (I was 4) And then I laughed… 4-year-old-demon-child laughter.
I crushed his flowers; I crushed his dreams.
Poor Ricky looked traumatized… We hardly spoke over the next 9 years. We might have said “hello” a time or two during the Christmas Pageants at Church… He usually played Joseph, I usually played the Shepherd… or the donkey. I was a jackass, after all. We may have briefly acknowledged each other at our High School graduation… “G-Good job. You made it… See ya.” To Ricky, will I be the first girl he kissed…or the demon child who violently crushed and ate his flowers?
Maybe I should have seen this as a red flag early on in life. Were those crushed flowers an omen for what my relationships with men would look like for the rest of my life? Do I still metaphorically crush up their flowers when I jokingly berate them by teasing about receding hairlines or abnormally large toes, or referring to the slightly older ones as “war veterans” who have “seen it all.” My style of flirting with most men is by telling them I hate them. And I don’t say it in a cute way; I say it with conviction. I have found other ways to “crush their flowers,” such as pushing them away… keeping them at a nice, safe distance. I’ve even been known to leave hateful notes on my lovers’ cars with hand-drawn pictures of babies crying, titled “I hate you.”
Clearly, I’m a real charmer. But, let’s face it, it’s a tough world and I have to keep myself safe and sane… and sometimes it’s just fun to be the jackass in the pageant.
Kind regards,
Demon Child