Writing in almost pornographic prose about my first cigarette got me thinking about other “firsts”.
Speaking of porn, I saw my first true-blue movie freshman year of college, in a dorm room at Libby Hall. Not only did it bear little resemblance to my reality, the action was a bit too crazy, violent and it looked like it hurt a hell of a lot.
The first time I held my first and newborn niece, she peed on me. She’s about to give birth to her first baby.
The first time I ever kissed a boy I thought it tasted bad.
The first time someone my age died suddenly I was 16 years old. Chris Mastalski, who told me I had the nicest legs of all the girls, was killed in a fit of road rage in 1981, before the term was even coined. It was a first.
The first memory I have of my Dad is him walking away down an airport corridor, shipping off to Vietnam. We has wearing a blue suit, but carried the jacket over his arm.
The first concert I ever went to was The Captain and Tennille with my Dad.
I tell everyone the first concert I ever went to was The Rolling Stones, Heart and George Thorogood on one bill. I was just 15 at the time, but my Mom said I could go if my older brother took me and looked after me. He used to be a big stoner. Guess how that went?
The first time I said “I love you”, he didn’t say it back.