FRIEDMAN: I kissed a girl

I kissed a girl and I liked it. Okay, maybe that’s not entirely true. Last Friday night I spent my evening in pursuit of some vital musical research. After watching an “E! True Hollywood Story” on America’s own Katy Perry, I couldn’t get her music out of my head. This teenage dream has a lot going for her. For starters, she can attach cupcakes to her bra and still be taken seriously. Well, semi-seriously. And if that’s not enough, she’s managed to snag Russell Brand, a sex God posing as a homeless man. Lucky lady.

But I digress. After this E! Special, Katy was on my mind. I wanted to walk like her, talk like her, and maybe even look like her. So I started thinking to myself, what could I possibly do to live a day in the life of Katy Perry? And it hit me. Live up to one of her songs. But which? After further contemplation, my eyes drifted to the GQ sitting on the coffee table beside me. Mila Kunis was posing on the cover. Man, do I have one lady boner for that gal. And there it was. I would kiss a girl. And like it. Maybe.

My quest began two hours later at a house party in Allston. I was a couple drinks in and squinting my eyes, I scanned the room for the perfect female lip-smacking companion. She had to be edgy, because I wasn’t about to lose my girl-on-girl kissing virginity to a lady who wouldn’t guarantee a memorable evening. At first, my judgment was considerably impaired by the bountiful dose of booze I had chug-a-lugged. I could barely see clearly, blinded by the sea of flannel shirts. Was I at a lumberjack convention? No, I was in Allston.

And then, after the Blue Moons had settled in the valley of my hetero stomach, I saw her. She had a pixie haircut that could put a fairy to shame, and glared at me with such a searing intensity that I nearly swallowed my tongue. But then I remembered that I would need it to kiss my damsel in distressed-denim shorts, and I snapped back to reality.

I started to walk towards her. Well, that’s not entirely true. I intended to strut sexily her way, but thanks to a jungle juice spill on the floor and my unwavering intoxication, I drunk-stumbled over to my v-card kiss swiper. Luckily, she found me charming.

Actually, it’s more probable that she found me pathetic, but somehow she found me tolerable and that’s all I could ask for. I complimented her hair more times than I should have, and she complimented my necklace, getting uncomfortably close to the mini-mounds peeking from my low-cut top. I was in uncharted territory. How would this all go down? Where should I put my hands? Did I need a Tic-tac? I was clueless.

The next thing I knew, I was pinned against the wall of the grungy bathroom with nail-polished hands reading invisible braille on my face… and cupcakes. This was new to me. But I couldn’t forget the mission, so I focused. With an open mind and a very open mouth, I committed to a game of tonsil hockey that would make any athlete proud. She tasted like Hawaiian punch mixed with rum. This wasn’t the cherry chapstick that I had hoped for, but I definitely wasn’t disappointed with the flavor.

Five minutes later, we pried our faces apart. What was I supposed to do now? Spastically, I shot my arm up and gave her a high five and sprinted. I know, a high five.

But despite my pathetic end, I had collected enough data to determine a verdict: I kissed a girl and I liked it. Until I realized that this angry fairy had given me a fat lip. Katy never mentioned how feisty those lady-kisses can get, and well, my new Angelina Jolie pout speaks for itself. But swollen lips aside, the experience was memorable and enjoyable. And while I don’t foresee me and the pretty lady joining forces again, I like to think of her as my soul sister. But that’s for another article.

Samantha Friedman is a senior at the College of Arts & Sciences and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. She can be reached at samtf@bu.edu.