I remember running up to Mom one day after school and asking her what a French kiss was. All the girls in school were talking about it. I was in sixth grade. Mom twisted her face into a grimace and ground out, “Ew gross, you only do that with your husband.” I asked again and received the same reaction and words. I went back to school the next day and asked my friends what a French kiss was. They said it was a tongue kiss. At home that afternoon I informed my sister, who was two years my junior, about what a French kiss was and asked her if she wanted to stick out her tongue and touch my tongue to see if it was as gross as Mom said it was. She complied and we both agreed with Mom. Several years later, I would learn that it isn’t gross at all. In fact, in the heat of passion, it is quite the opposite.
A couple years ago, my sister and I were reminiscing. My dad was eighty-eight at the time and in the room with us, laid back in his recliner asleep, with the TV blaring. When we were sharing the French kiss story, Dad sat up, opened his eyes and exclaimed that he had never had a French kiss. We were totally taken aback. Number one: He was asleep and is hard of hearing, but obviously he has selective hearing. Number two: How do you get to be eighty-eight and have never experienced a French kiss?
I wonder what else he hasn’t experienced, but I’m not asking.