The first guy I ever kissed was a boy named Tony. I can’t remember exactly when it happened, but we were down an alleyway, somewhere between my home, his home and our school on the corner. He had blue eyes, freckles, veins in his face and swore he’d be a football star one day, Tony. He and his mum lived on the downstairs floor of a maisonette. A red brick house with a green door like all the others. We were down the alley and I was leaning up against the wall when he stuck his tongue down my throat the way grown-ups do. Not touching anything else, mind; we just stood there with our tongue down each other’s throat and I can’t even remember; were we hugging or not? His mum seemed nice enough. Said hello if we happened to meet. Not like most of them. She’d’ve thrown a loopy, though, if she’d known what was going on. Then again, she might’ve been the type to just laugh and say, ‘kids!’

Tony and me we met a few times to stick our tongue down each other’s throat before each went home, but we also met to play table tennis.

Bit…

bat…

bit…

bat…

he’d squat as though about to sit on a chair in his head and I’d try to keep the ball going over… that…

net…

and when it fell on the floor and I picked it up, I was always surprised by just how light it was. Strange, isn’t it? We were classmates. He was Irish. And we must’ve been around eight years old. And without anyone saying anything one day it was over, we’d just walk past each other and nod, ‘wotcha!’

(from Mut@tus)