by Matthew Sanborn Smith
My first kiss involved twelve other people.
I was a genetic aberration with a lip span fourteen feet across. School, needless to say, was a generally unpleasant experience. The kids called me big mouth and it hurt. Not as much as when somebody stepped on my lips, but it did hurt. Aside from that, I was happy. Not that anyone believed me. With lip droop like mine, I broke records for the largest perpetual frown.
Then in high school, Cassandra and Helen and Fran and Gertrude and Suzanne and Elliot and Petra and Trina and Julie and Paulette and Yasmine and Trish came along. They formed the Lip League, a group of young fetishists who nearly wet themselves when they met me. They swept me away to an underground party the first weekend of my freshman year and there, among the stolen six-packs and scratchy basement couches, they lifted my lips, counted three, and laid the biggest smooch upon me in smooching history. I found the whole thing bone-meltingly erotic.
The thirteen of us became sweethearts. My confidence soared. I knew they'd never leave me for someone else. We were married in a highly dubious ceremony just after graduation. My lips have not drooped since.