Have you ever had a perfect moment? Yeah, me neither. But the closest I came to perfection was my first kiss. It was well over a decade ago, but I still recall almost every detail.
We were sitting on a park bench in Hong Kong. Beautiful, flashy, fast-paced, humid Hong Kong. I was there for a month as part of a summer study abroad program. Some exchange-student friends who lived in my dorm at the University of Maryland encouraged me to go, promising they would see me on the other side. So I applied, begged (successfully) for a scholarship, cleaned out my meager savings (the scholarship was only partial), and packed my bags. It was my first time overseas, and I loved just about every minute of the experience. It led to an insatiable travel addiction that made me the semi-sophisticated man I am today.
Somehow I was—and continue to be—more successful with women abroad than at home. Traveling brought me out of my comfort zone, so I was able to exude more confidence in the face of both danger and women. It also worked to my advantage that I was an idolized foreigner—and a white American no less. If any white person reading this still doubts there’s a thing called white privilege, you’ve clearly never been to Asia. But I digress.
In Hong Kong I spent some of the time studying, but what I remember most are the solo adventures I took to its many small islands, off-the-beaten paths, and hidden gems. It’s like I was searching for something special. I even had it in my head before departure that I would find love there.
Love came in the form of a woman I already knew well—an exchange student who had been sightseeing in the U.S. after completing her semester. When she returned to Hong Kong, she found out I was still there and took me to dinner. I recall getting more excited about seeing her than I did about climbing the Great Wall of China a couple of weeks prior: she was my secret crush. She was the real hidden gem—or at least the elusive one I had yet to hold in my hands: we met through mutual friends about five months before I left for Hong Kong, and I spent four of those months courting her without even realizing it. I was so young and naive then.
The infatuation began during a production of TheVagina Monologues. This had to be in February—likely on Valentine’s Day—which is quite fitting. I ended up sitting next to her due to circumstances I can’t recall. I had no idea what to say to her (if anything), what to laugh at, what not to laugh at, and so on. It was very awkward. Did I mention I was young and naive then? Instead of asking her on a real date thereafter, I proceeded to visit my friend/her roommate as an excuse to see her and engage in numerous other passive attempts to get her attention, such as calling her cell when I saw her walking on campus from a distance and saying things like “I can see you right now.” Yeah, not my finest hour.
So when I found myself at dinner with her in Hong Kong, I was only five months older and just as naive. I knew I was in love but didn’t know what to do with it. I was so stupidly in love that I got lost on the way back to my dormitory that night because all I could think about was how she looked at me when I (awkwardly) said goodnight and (awkwardly) kissed her (awkwardly) sweaty cheek. Did I mention how humid it gets in Hong Kong? She waited till the right bus came and told me precisely what stop to get off at—and I still got lost. I was hopeless.
It took two more nights for us to actually kiss on the lips (in rated-G fashion). So I’ll end the story where it began: on that park bench on a humid night in mid-summer. It was like a dream.
It’s doubtful the woman who kissed me for the first time will ever read this, but if she does, I hope she smiles as much while reading it as I am while writing it. It was the best first kiss ever—probably because she initiated it after all my bumbling attempts at playing Romeo to her Juliet (in case you haven’t been paying attention, this is my second Shakespeare reference).
When I close my eyes, I can conjure up that moment as if it were redemption for my entire shameful post-adolescence up to that point. It also precipitated the first time I would experience any real emotional pain, for I left only days later and, despite our efforts to keep up at a (long) distance, I never saw her again.
If I could rewrite the story, I would have stayed—in that first kiss—forever.
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Matthew Johnson is a writer, editor, and UX designer. He has published numerous academic articles, op-eds, and sponsored posts. He is co-author of the 2018 book Trumpism: The Politics of Gender in a Post-Propitious America. He has also served as an educator in a variety of contexts.
Somehow I was—and continue to be—more successful with women abroad than at home. Traveling brought me out of my comfort zone, so I was able to exude more confidence in the face of both danger and women. It also worked to my advantage that I was an idolized foreigner—and a white American no less. If any white person reading this still doubts there’s a thing called white privilege, you’ve clearly never been to Asia. But I digress.
