A memory not forgotten

Love is not blind. It’s like a spotlight in your eyes while walking down a dark lane.

I didn’t mean to fall in love with Beulah Faye Phelps. I blame it on a broken chain on a rat-trap Schwinn bicycle and a cold, blustery, winter wind. But mostly it was Beulah Faye’s fault. She taught me how to French kiss.

It was 1958 and it was cold. I remember it was cold because I was walking and was cold. My trusty Schwinn had taken me to a ballgame at the Avery gym, but halfway home, the chain broke on a downpush as I was trying to get more speed in order to get out the cold faster.

The bike was stashed behind Missionary Baptist Church. Not that anyone would steal it if I left it in the middle of the road. It was, as stated, 1958, and it was in Avery. Theft of property was mostly limited to the times when migrant workers invaded the town, and in a few cases of ancients with dementia who took a handful of gumballs at the drug store but didn’t remember doing it or even sucking on the multi-colored, long-lasting candies for the next week. Dad just made a note on their account and a relative paid the bill, no questions asked.

As I hoofed it down the street toward home, a small car pulled up alongside.

“Want a ride home, George?”

I wasn’t into girls much yet, but did notice the small car was full of them. There were three girls, all high-schoolers. The driver was Sarah Williams, a tall, lanky, blonde, athletic basketball player; Wynonna Warren, a snappy-eyed, brunette cheerleader who could look sexy simply by yawning, rode shotgun; Beulah Faye, an exotic, olive-skinned, eye-smiler with a pouty mouth and a captivating mole just to the left of her upper lip, was in the back seat.

I did want a ride home. It was cold. Wynonna opened the door, eased forward, pulling her seat up to give me room to get in the back seat. Even as skinny as I was – “built like a saw blade,” an uncle was fond of saying – it was a tight fit. The back seat was ultra-small. My left hip and leg burned where it touched Beulah Faye’s. I could have moved over slightly (and sat on the small ashtray ledge) but really didn’t see the need or have the inclination.

The girls were jabbering about the game with Dimple. Sarah accepted praise from Wynona for her twenty-something points; Sarah, in turn, pointed to Beulah Faye’s tight defense as a key to the lopsided score. I was ignored which was fine; concentrating on touching hips and thighs were occupying my thoughts.

“So, George,” Beulah Faye said, turning at the waist to face me, “ever been kissed by a real woman?”

My reaction was a normal one for a young teener among a bevy of good-looking high school girls: I swallowed my tongue and choked myself. If I had of known about testosterone back then, I would have thought: Wow! I am testosterone-ing to beat the band!

I tried to answer Beulah Faye’s question but all that came out were hairball-wracking sounds. The trio splattered laughter all over the VW’s interior, triggering an all-world case of the blushes. If there had been enough light, I know I would have looked like an upside down thermometer.

Beulah Faye put her arm around me and pulled me close. “It’s okay, George. We’re just joshin’ with you.” She gave me a little squeeze, which forced my left elbow funny-bone deep into her right breast.

Really, humiliation is not that big of a deal.

“So, you never answered my question. Have you ever been kissed by a woman?”

“No, if you don’t count relatives at funerals and homecomings, or Momma’s friends who come to the house on Canasta night.”

Deafening silence slammed around the car’s interior like a Super Ball.

Glancing over her right shoulder, Sarah said, “Would you like to?” Wynonna echoed: “Would you like to?”

Bravado emerged from somewhere. “This is a joke, right?”

Beulah Faye leaned more into me and made my elbow happier than it had ever been. “No, no joke? Would you like to be kissed by a real woman?”

Breaking into a lust-sweat, I screamed, “Yes, Lord! Oh, Yes!”

“Go ahead, Beulah Faye, kiss him,” Sarah said as she pulled the VW under one of Avery’s thirteen street lights and adjusted the rearview mirror.

Beulah Faye took my head in both hands, looked deeply into my eyes, moved her head slowly toward me, parted her lips slightly and closed her eyes. My eyes were riveted on her small beauty mark as her lips touched mine.

I expected a short peck, a quick release, and gales of laughter from the high school trio.
I was wrong, but not disappointed.

As Beulah Faye’s lips mashed mine against my teeth, I felt something alive crawling into my mouth! I jerked, but she held me firm. This was not okay.

Slowly, ever so slowly, my male sense overcame kid-fear and I realized the live thing was her tongue and the slithering was more pleasant than appalling. A kiss dessert. Apple pie compared to bad brownies. A Twinkie compared to fried prune pies.

Coming up for air, she said, “Now you try it, George.” She reconnected our lips (without my assistance, since I was paralyzed from my chin to my waist and from my thighs to my toes). Her tongue flickered in and out of my mouth like a spavined moth around a light bulb, licking my lips and touching the roof of my mouth and tongue in turns.

Deciding it was time to make my move, I thrust my tongue forward like a bottle rocket. A ladylike, quasi-casual recoil followed.

“Slow down, take it slow. It’s easier than it looks.”

Within the space of a minute, with her hands squeezing and pressing for emphasis or movement – not unlike I later thought the gentle ministrations of Fred Astaire to Ginger Rogers – I controlled I-wanna impulses and just let my tongue do the heavy lifting.

She broke the kiss. “Not bad, George. Not bad at all. You’re a fast learner.”

No memories remain of the short ride home or what was said when I got out of the car or went into the house. Surely Mom or Dad asked about my bike, and surely I gave some answer. All I remember is going to bed and dreaming of being educated in the finer points of kissing by Beulah Faye Phelps.

I never got to thank her properly until well into my fifth decade of life when I wrote a note to my favorite high school teacher somewhere around her 90th birthday:

"My life was enriched by six wonderful people: My grandfather and
grandmother, my father and mother, Ms. Margie Grant, the world's greatest English teacher who refused to accept anything but the best from her students, and Beulah Faye Phelps, who taught me how to French kiss.

"I am a better person because of all of their efforts on my behalf."