Kiss Me There

I was dancing so hard, I was afraid my hair would go flat. Which was a tough spot to be in, because my hair was the biggest it's ever been up to that point. The bass boomed over the speakers and I tried to dance in a non-hair destroying manner. Which was a little bit of side to side, but not much back and forth.

I was sixteen years old, and I was at The Vic - life was good.

The Vic was a 21-and under dance club for teenagers. Even back then, it had a bad reputation. Short for The Victory, the 1920s theater-turned-nightclub struggled to find its place in deserted downtown Evansville. During the week the venue hosted conferences and concerts, and on Friday and Saturday nights, it turned into teen Thunderdome.

Let's go to The Vic was usually followed with an eye roll and a groan, but sooner or later, at some point during your teens, you went...at least once.

It was chaos: DJ's spinning pop hits, kids standing shoulder to shoulder, warm sodas sold at the concession stand, hot beer and whiskey smuggled into clandestine flasks. Dancing on the main floor, anything went in the balcony.

  Back then, the Victory didn't look this nice.

Back then, the Victory didn't look this nice.

That night I came with my girlfriends, but we quickly paired up with boys. After dancing for six songs straight, I motioned to the concession stand and made the drink? hand motion. My boy nodded and we walked together to share a warm, expensive Pepsi. I sat on a tattered stool as he gulped his half and waited as I began to drink the rest.

I wanna kiss you, he whispered in my ear.

I shrugged.

Ok, I said. But you've gotta kiss me there. And as I motioned with my thumb, I drank the last of the Pepsi.

His eyes got wide and he smiled. He barely waited for me to finished the drink, and he grabbed my hand and led me to the balcony. I offered him my cheek, and he looked confused. He stood perfectly still. I pointed to my cheek. He kissed it, and stormed off.

It wasn't until I was walking down from the balcony, alone, that I realized why he was confused: as I drank, my thumb pointed to my chest...when I meant to point to my cheek.

And that's the story of my very first kiss and also the story of the very first time I was bad at hand gestures.

Larkspur, Purple/Naughtiness

This post is part of a Blogging A To Z series where I write a new, personal story almost every day (except Sundays). The theme is the hidden messages: the language of flowers.

 

photos: Disney, visitevansville.com & historicevansville.com