I would like to talk to you about frenching. You know, when you kiss with your mouth open and your tongue touching someone else’s. That description probably makes you go eewww, even though frenching is firework-inducing when done right.
Therein lies the problem.
Doing it right.
Let me tell you, I was not the world’s greatest frencher as a teen. Which, by the way, that’s why I’m blogging about this. Because I’m a young-adult writer and I guess I’m supposed to be in touch with stuff teens care about and experience.
Except, honestly, if I actually wrote about my first few experiences frenching, like how they really happened, no one would read my books. Ever.
Because the first time I frenched? Well, that was just plain weird. A neighbor girl and I took a Barbie table cloth (the one that went with the Barbie camper — you know the one I mean), put it between our mouths, and tried to kiss like we saw Bo and Hope doing on Days of Our Lives. But mostly we wound up biting each other. It hurt. We put the table cloth away and never spoke of it again.
Then there was my first seventh-grade boyfriend. I went over to his house one day when his parents weren’t home. We sat on his couch and watched sports. That right there should have told me the frenching wouldn’t be great. And it wasn’t. But it was my first time so I didn’t know any better. I thought having spit all over your chin was part of the fun. And also, because of the Barbie table cloth, or maybe not because of it, I don’t know, I think I thought you were supposed to open your mouth reeeeaaallly wide. Like can-I-fit-a-can-of-Coke-in-here wide. Like Sharktopus wide.
We broke up shortly thereafter. I totally blame the frenching.
The whole huge-mouth thing was an issue. The boy I frenched after that was like, “Crap, you look like you’re going to swallow my head.”
But—that’s how I thought it was supposed to go. All wide-mouthed and passionate and stuff. Like in the movies. I guess I was taking it too far. I needed to be a goldfish but I was being Big Mouth Billy Bass instead.
Well, then I was saved. A new and exceptionally nice boy gently told me — as we were frenching behind the movie theater, waiting for our respective rides — to close my mouth a little more when we kissed. He wasn’t mean about it. He was just … constructive.
So I did. And it was better.
And then we dated Three. Whole. Weeks. Which, in seventh grade, is like being married.
For Valentine’s day, he gave me a card. It said, and I quote:
Lara, Happy Valentine [sic] day.
You are a good kisser (frencher).
People, I cannot make this stuff up.
Sharktopost
My Sharktopus shirt came! Zomg! As many of you know from posts like this, I’m slightly obsessed with this movie. So when Her Universe offered up a women’s Sharktopus shirt, I was all over that like CHOMP on a bikini-clad beach babe. Next up, I am putting Sharktopus in my next book. The question is, how? Should my main character be obsessed with the movie like I am? I’d love to hear your thoughts on how to work Sharktopus into my next book! CHOMP for thought ….
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