I got my first kiss a week ago, in a parking lot, in the middle of the afternoon, towards the end of my first date with anyone ever, after talking to the other person for about an hour and a half, and at what felt like a rather odd but perfect point in our conversation.
I’m posting this publicly, even though that relationship – a blossomy hopeful week-old creature – isn’t public yet and probably won’t be for a while yet, because this was not how I thought it would happen.
Good Bubble girls do not do this stuff. Good Bubble girls… probably have nightmares about one of the sweetest things I’ve ever experienced.
But it happened, and I’m still processing it in the context of the things I used to believe, and that’s kinda a mess so here I am writing about it in the hope that maybe putting it into words and flinging it at the faceless internet will help it make sense.
I’m a daughter of purity culture, and there’s nothing new I can say about that calamity, but I will say that it’s a fun thing to explain to people who don’t know it exists. If you’re such a person, others have written about this stuff way better than I have and I’m sorry I’m not in the mood to explain it. And if you’re one of my fellow victims… you wish you could forget, right??
Good Bubble girls don’t kiss anybody until they’re married. Or engaged at the very least. Or maybe almost engaged. Certain they’re with their soulmate, in any case.
I was never really a good Bubble girl. Never had anything else that world wanted from me. But damned if I wasn’t innocent as all hell. My lack of physical experience was supposed to be my one selling point as a person, enough to make some unfortunate man want to take care of me forever in exchange for being the only person to ever see my glory.
Because, y’know, that’s a totally legit reason to settle down with somebody. Not because you’re actually good for each other, not because you want the same things, but because you wanna get all over each other.
The older I get, the further I get from that world, the more I understand why outsiders think it’s all crazy.
I got lucky, I guess, in that I didn’t freak out after the kiss – which in itself was a very strange five seconds before I processed that maybe I want to do things slowly and maybe holding hands with the guy I may or may not be dating is still kinda weird for me and maybe this is about six new sensations at once and I like it but I’m not sure how to deal. I got lucky in that the freakout actually happened on my drive home about half an hour later, and then in lesser forms over the following two days. I got lucky in that, a week later, I’ve accepted it as an utterly beautiful Thing That Happened.
But still, I’m stuck with the guilt of a culture I have tried to leave behind.
Good Bubble girls wouldn’t have let that happened. Good Bubble girls would’ve stayed far away from someone who’d do that to them. Good Bubble girls would definitely not let the situation repeat a couple days later, let alone actively enjoy it.
Screw it, I’ve never been a good Bubble girl. If anything, I was always Reject Girl, the world’s worst superhero or whatev. All Reject Girl had going for her was her innocence, and now even that’s gone.
Ah well. There was never a future for me within the Bubble. And like something right out of a fairytale, all it took for me to finally accept that fate was the gentle brush of another person’s lips against mine.
I’ve got bigger things ahead of me now.