Kissing

Kissing, at the time, was pretty much sex as we knew it.

I practiced kissing my hand. Sometimes I could go for hours. I kissed it in bed. I used to imagined that I was a wounded soldier, and a beautiful nurse had come to see that I was all right. I was hurt, so she had no excuse to refuse the kiss. I guess this was a natural extension of playing war. Then, the point was to escape injury. It still was, but if by chance you took a hit, at least the day wasn't a total loss. About this time, I began to feel sorry that the girls weren't interested in combat.

I stopped kissing my hand when my sister caught me doing it. We shared a bedroom. Even at that age you had to have some humility.

I should make it clear right now that I did not then, nor I ever, put my tongue in my hand. No, no, no. We had no idea that even happenned. Imagine the horror a the idea of merely putting your mouth against some girl's mouth. And then some kid who just got back from vacation in Europe tells you that the French do it differently. You almost want to go back playing war.