The First Kiss
Is consent the basis of respect?
My first kiss was sneaked.
It was 8th grade, I was asleep, or rather, I was pretending to be so. Perhaps this was a way that it would make the arrangement acceptable, that I would be laying down on the bed, and on my mother’s bed, of all places. We were fully clothed, and I believe we had arrived there, in bed, in a relatively innocuous way; there had been reading. This memory stretches past several decades of days now, so its details hang loose, but the broad outline is rather secure. There seems to have been a book on site. The overhead reading lamp was on, the classic silhouette of a long neck, arching to curved brass, the sharp contours of a triangle, with the base cut out, fanning out light.
At this time I still wore glasses. There was a sensation of being, or hoping to be, enticing in the eyes of this other person in the room. That I had worn suitably flattering clothing, and that my shape underneath might spark some imagination.
At that time I still had long hair, not like now, though some boyfriends (I’m embarrassed, even now, that this a title they held; ugh) asked me to grow it longer— isn’t that a pretty bold request? To ask someone to modify their appearance for you? “Could you lose five pounds? Could you grow bigger breasts? Could you wear contacts? Could you wear a wig?” How far might we go in becoming dolls, they would like to know.
Brock said that Hope wasn’t “living up to his standards” was what it seemed to say, in the screenshot of Hope’s order of protection petition, in a news report on her children’s death. He defined the standards.
I have heard of other survivor-thrivers having this phrase get used against them as well: “you’re not living up to my standards.”
Perhaps the devil had given them all some handbook, a list of phrases that they could use to belittle.
There I was, on the bed, eyes closed. I suppose I wanted to be looked at, to be admired, appreciated, found beautiful, found attractive. The weighty, pelvic curing lure of the male gaze, eh? The total thrill of feeling oneself being beautiful in the eyes of a man. That crack we crave.
He, my first boyfriend, a fellow 8th grader, he removed my glasses. To him, I should have looked to be sleeping, but perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps he could know the ruse we were architecting. That two young people might likely feel too awkward, too shy, too novice to admit and accept they wanted to be in close physical proximity, and to enjoy one another’s physicality and physical presence.
He was shorter than I. Perhaps this factored into calculations he should would have, consciously or not, worked out in advance. If we had been standing, would it have been hard to make the first move? To be more diminutive in height, compared to your female companion?
Or am I simply finding excuses for this man? As we are so trained to do. It wasn’t his fault, after all, she wore provocative clothing. We put men up on a pedestal as these pretty perfect things; we’ll place no fault on your shoulders, and no blame at your feet.
He removed my glasses and kissed me. I don’t remember the sensation, neither how my body reacted physically, nor what emotional spark entailed. What I do remember, is that I’d been laying down, eyes closed, and then I was kissed.
Should he have asked for consent?