Kiss and Make-Up by Gene Simmons

wanted to be my girlfriend, but in retrospect it is clear that she had carnal intentions. One day when we were walking home after school, she explained to me what girls were like. I was stunned and fascinated. “You want me to put what? Where?”
    She explained that she couldn’t get pregnant that way. When I escorted her to the entrance of her apartment complex, she led me downstairs to the basement where the laundry room was. It was dark and empty. We were alone. She lowered herself to the floor and pulled me on top of her. Between passionate kisses, she hiked up her dress, lowered her panties, put her right hand behind my head, and gently pushed me down, between her thighs.
    I was scared. I had heard stories, especially from the Italian guys on the school grounds. “Hey, you crazy or sumthin? You put your face down there? You’re gonna get sick!”
    She immediately started moaning and I became aroused like I never had. I thought she wanted me to kiss her there. I did. It sent her into further ecstasy. And then, as if a sign from heaven told me everything I needed to know, I heard a voice plead, “Oh, Gene, your tongue, give me your tongue!” I did. No sooner did I make contact with her than she went into violent convulsions, wrapped both of her hands behind my head, and rammed her pelvis into my face. She squirmed her entire body and used my tongue like a hot knife through butter.
    Although the entire event sticks in my mind as having lasted a long time, it probably only took her thirty seconds to achieve orgasm. This was my baptism by fire. I owned her. She lay there on the basement floor in complete surrender. For the rest of my life, I would remember that early encounter and what I could do with my tongue.
    But it wasn’t over, not yet. A few moments passed and we talked a little as I lay beside her. While I was in midsentence, she reached over and put her right hand between my legs. She raised herself up, undid my jeans and pulled them down, and immediately wrapped her mouth around me. Though I was barely conscious, I noticed that she held me with her left hand and was manipulating herself with the right.
    Sadly, this was to be the only encounter between us. She soon moved away. And if she reads this, I hope she remembers it fondly. I certainly do. I started having off-the-cuff conversations in school about my encounter. When I told one of the guys about it and stuck my tongue out to show him what I had done with it, he remarked how goddamned long it was.
    I never knew. I never thought it mattered. But when I started showing girls my length, they were clearly impressed.
    The tongue incident ushered in a whole new era in my love life. I had only just turned fourteen, but since I was tall, I kept being invited to Sweet Sixteen parties, even though I was a little younger. There were all these girls whose names I still remember, Belinda and Irene and Barbara and Andrea. They were the cool girls, the ones the guys wanted to go out with at night, and for some reason they wanted me at their parties. Those parties were filled with the kinds of things I had never seen before: turning down the lights and playing records and spin the bottle. There was also slow dancing. Irene, I think, was the first girl who picked me to dance; it was ladies’ choice, and we were moving together, and the lights were down, and everybody started kissing. Then all of a sudden she stuck her tongue in my mouth. I thought I was going to throw up or drop dead. And then while she was sticking her tongue in my mouth, she took my hands and moved them down below her waist. I had a queasy feeling, thatsame tingly feeling I had from the girl jumping rope, but stronger. Then I got the hang of it, and I stuck my tongue into her mouth, and all of a sudden she started moaning. Then the song ended. We parted, then everybody went over to the table to have chips.
    While I was thinking over what had just happened, two other girls came up and asked me to dance.