The True Story of my First Kiss

After 30 years I finally have the courage to share.

“When was your first kiss?”

Immediately, just like every other time I’ve been asked this question,  my heart starts to race, I get sweaty, and I have to gauge my audience and decide which answer to give.  

“I was 19, sitting in a car in the driveway of my house, with the cutest, curly haired, blue-eyed, 21-year-old.  It was thrilling.”

Or the truth.

“I was 16, in the basement of my neighbors house, with a 31-year-old father of three.  It was thrilling.  And confusing.”  

My heart is racing and my palms are sweaty just writing it out.  

It’s been 32 years since that first kiss.  I’ve only shared the true story of my first kiss with a handful of people.  For years I kept it secret because I was deeply ashamed and desperate to protect my first true love, D, and his family.  At the request of his wife, I am choosing not to use his full name.  She has been through enough already.  It took until I had young children of my own before I realized that I had been abused.  And when my young children turned 16 my anger raged at the thought of an older, married man, taking a girl this young, and forcing his tongue inside her mouth, robbing her of the  simplicity and purity of a first kiss.  

So why share this story now?  It’s been so long.  I’ve been happily married for 25 years and D has been out of my life for almost 30 years.  When we parted ways, we did so with respect and love for each other.  Why dredge up the past and risk criticism of my actions or put his relationships in jeopardy? 

D, his wife, and three kids moved into our neighborhood and became quick friends with those around them.  I wasn’t the only teenage girl in the neighborhood to be smitten by him.  He was younger than most of the adult neighbors and had a passion for life and learning that he graciously shared with us.  D and his family invited our family into their home for games, and their backyard for barbecues.  

Growing up in Utah Valley, the beating heart of the Mormon church, I was surrounded by other believers.  Almost all of my neighbors joined me and my family in the pews of the church a block away as we worshiped for three hours every Sunday and had activities on weekdays.  My dad was called to be the bishop, the leader of the congregation, and it didn’t take long for him to call D to be the elder’s quorum president, one of his right hand men, to help lead the faithful followers.  D was a righteous man.  He loved the church and willingly served.  His wife, J, was one of my youth leaders.  Both of them sacrificed their time to teach us the gospel and also to provide fun, bonding experiences for the youth in the congregation.  I was thrilled when D took us rappelling in the canyons near our home.  Not everyone dared step backwards off the cliff, but I couldn’t wait for it to be my turn, and to do it again and again.   

Not only did D love outdoor activities but he also loved music.  These were my two very favorite things.  My sister and I were so excited when he invited us to join his family to go to our very first Broadway play.  Les Miserables came to Salt Lake City and I was in the audience for it. 

D and J also asked my parents if it would be ok for me and my sister to travel with them to their home state of Illinois to help with the kids and the drive home after D flew back early for work.  For two girls who had not really traveled much outside of Utah and California this was an epic adventure to travel across the country and to experience so many firsts.  I have to admit, my stomach would flutter every time I noticed D looking at me through the rear view mirror.  He seemed to do it a lot.  It was thrilling.  And confusing.  Was it an accident that he occasionally brushed up against me, and that his touch seemed to linger??   

Shortly after this trip he passionately pulled me into his arms and thrust his tongue into my mouth.  My family was invited over to play pool with them in his basement.  It seemed so luxurious that they had a pool table!  What a cool family.  When it was time to go, the two of us were the last to walk up the stairs.  D seized the moment, and staked his claim.  The kiss didn’t last long, my parents and siblings, his wife and kids, were upstairs waiting.  But it was long enough.  

I walked home in a complete daze.  What just happened?  Is that what kissing is like?  Is D in love with me?  

It didn’t take long for me to fall deeply, deeply in love.  I have loved so much since this first love.  I know love.  And this felt like love.  True, deep, passionate, wild love.  I was ready to marry D.  I knew it was meant to be and that it would happen some day.  I wanted  to spend my life with him, raise his kids for him.  There was just one obstacle.  His wife.  

The following months, years, were full of secrecy, hidden in plain sight.  D hired me to work for him.  He owned a printing press and taught me how to process film in the small dark room, located just outside his office.  A convenient place to teach me how to make prints, and how to make out.  He had experience with both.  I had none.  He was an excellent teacher.   For lunch breaks I would get on my bike and ride to the secluded park nearby where he would meet me for a lunchtime rendezvous.  The game only got more exciting when he hired my siblings to work for him as well.  

D and J continued to invite my family over for game nights.  These nights were thrilling.  Stolen glances, brushes past each other, feet touching under the table as cards were dealt above.  On the best nights our feet wandered higher and higher up each other's legs.  

D was kind enough to take me and my siblings skiing for the first time.  We grew up at the base of some of the best skiing in the world, but with five other siblings, and never enough money, skiing as a family was not an option.  Our parents were so grateful that D would make this possible for us.  We wore our jeans and jackets and, once again, D quickly taught me a new skill.  He was an excellent teacher and somehow, the two of us always ended up on the ski lifts alone.  

I was in my senior year of high school and was taking the hardest math class offered.  D was brilliant with math and my parents thought it would be a good idea for him to tutor me.  He most likely planted the idea.  Lucky for us, J always went to bed early.  I got the highest scores in that math class, needing only a little tutoring to pull it off, but I dutifully showed up for my sessions every chance I could.  

Our families sat right behind each other at church.  D would put his arm on the bench in front of me, resting it around his daughter's shoulders, and I would lean forward, finding  a way to make contact, assuming all eyes were on my dad as he preached from the pulpit.  This was a risky move but it made it all the more exciting.  On  weekdays, when the church was empty, he would use the keys he had as a leader of the church to sneak us into the chapel so he could listen to me play the grand piano.  No one valued my talent like he did.  I loved it and devoted more time than ever to my practice.    

And the love notes.  Dozens of notes and gifts (he learned to crochet things for me) were passed back and forth in secret.  I cherished his words.  He expressed his deep love for me, his dreams for our future, his love of God and all things holy.  I did the same.  

I tried to be a righteous girl.  I prayed daily, read my scriptures, served as a leader in my youth class and, out of hundreds of high school seniors, the majority of which shared the same faith as me, I was chosen to be on the seminary council with just 12 other students, proof that God recognized my righteousness and needed me to be an example and leader for others.  

You can imagine the mental gymnastics it took to make sense of what my life had become. One thing you need to know is that D and I never had intercourse.  Obviously.  This would be breaking the law of chastity.  We would never go that far until we found a way to be married.  I knew God would provide a way.  Our love was meant to be, and my prayers were constant and sincere that we would be together one day.  D and I talked about God and our religion often. We were deep thinkers and enjoyed discussing the meaning of life.  On a day that J and the kids were out of town, D told me to meet him at the elementary school down the road.  I rode my bike there and waited for him to pick me up.  He drove us a few hours away to the LDS Manti temple, a gorgeous building that was built in the late 1800’s, soon after the Mormons settled Utah.  My ancestors helped build this temple.  Far from home, and the people who might not understand our love for each other,  D and I were free to roam the grounds of this beautiful temple and dream of our future temple wedding.  Afterwards, we drove up into the mountains nearby and made out in the back of his van.  

Trust me.  I now know how disgusting all of this is.  Revolting.  Maddening.  Manipulative.  Abusive.  I am so damn lucky I didn’t get raped in the back of that van, didn’t end up pregnant with his child.  I shudder to think how drastically different my life could have been.  I was completely at D’s mercy.  He used his age, his position as a leader in my church and as my boss, his power, his friendship with my parents and family, his all-knowing maturity combined with my young naivety, to use me as he wanted. I was all his.  

But there was no way for my young brain to know any of this at the time.  I was flattered that this smart, fun, handsome, talented, older man had picked me. That he loved me.  That I would be his wife someday.  His oldest daughter was only a few years younger than me, but that didn’t matter.  We were friends.  She would understand and would love having me as her mom.  It would all work out.  So naive.  So manipulated.  

And where were my parents during all this?  How did they not notice this love affair? I only remember one close call.  J and D were at our home for another game night. We rarely played games with my parents.  But J and D brought our family together.  D and I sat so that we could touch feet under the table.  When they left my mom confronted me on it.  She must have seen something.  I adamantly denied that anything had happened and quickly left the room, panicked that she would bring it up again.  But she had bigger things to worry about.  Shortly after this we found out that her metastasized breast cancer had completely taken over her liver.  She died less than a month later.  

And my dad?  He was completely overcome with grief.  He allowed his grief to guide his actions and was married within five months, bringing five more children into our home.  He clearly didn’t have time for me.  D, the good man that he was, saw a chance to help out my grief stricken father and offered to make him a partner in his printing business.  So now my dad also worked in the same building as me and my siblings, making the dark room lessons all the more thrilling.  My dad never knew a thing.  The business relationship was a disaster, and even much later in life I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the man that led him to financial ruin, also took advantage of his daughter.  

So how did it all end with me and D?  In an attempt to be righteous, we would break off the physical relationship, and do our best to keep our hands off each other.  This lasted a few days, then a few weeks, then a few months.  Honestly, I think he got bored with his plaything. I continued to work for him, by now I had been promoted as his secretary, and we still spent hours discussing life.  He was my best friend.  And because he wanted what was best for me, he introduced me to a young man he knew.  And this led to the first kiss I usually tell people about.   “I was 19, sitting in a car in the driveway of my house, with the cutest, curly haired, blue-eyed, 21-year-old.  It was thrilling.”

But I couldn’t move past those years with D.  I wanted to be accepted and loved by God, and as time went on I recognized how sinful my time with him had been.  I needed to fully repent of my wrongdoings.  I was approaching my 21st birthday, the year women in the Mormon church were allowed to serve full-time missions.  This was something I wanted to do.  I wanted to share my faith, the only true faith on earth, with others so they could be close to God.  In order to do this, I needed to be a pure vessel for Him.  I knew I wasn’t pure because of the years I had spent in a relationship with D, and that the only way to become pure was to confess to my bishop, the current leader of my church group.  Up to this point I had only told one other person about my relationship with D.  My best friend had moved overseas with her family and the distance made it possible to share my relationship with her through letters.  Now I was going to share it with a man I barely knew.  It was terrifying and yucky, but I did my best to be brave, knowing it was the only way I could get close to God.  

My bishop listened to my story, asking for details so he could pronounce my punishment.  It was decided that I needed to read books about forgiveness, that I needed to pray to have Christ’s atonement wash me of my sins, that I wasn’t currently worthy of taking the weekly sacrament that was offered to the congregation as a way to show commitment to Christ.  Restricting access to the sacrament was reserved for those who had really sinned.  I knew I deserved all of this.  And more.  I wept for days as I begged for God’s forgiveness.  The forgiveness came and I felt a renewed commitment to Christ and his power to give us new life.  After just a few weeks the bishop graciously decided to let me take the sacrament again, recognizing that I had suffered enough for my sins, and was worthy again.  With his pronouncement I was free of the sins that held me down, ready to serve a mission and share my faith with others. 

I still worked for D at this time and let him know my plans to talk to my bishop.  He didn’t try to stop me but made sure I knew what this could do to his family, that he would finally have to tell J about us.  That night he called me for the last time. He told me J asked that he never talk to me again.  He fired me from my job and told me his partner would bring me my belongings from work, as well as a check to help cover my unemployment.  And that was it.  I lost the only job I had ever had, as well as my best friend.  

Now that you know the true story of my first kiss, I need to repeat what I wrote earlier.  It’s been 32 years since that first kiss.  Until now, I’ve only shared this story with a handful of people.  For years I kept it secret because I was deeply ashamed and desperate to protect my past lover and his family.  It took until I had young children of my own before I first realized that I had been abused.  When they turned 20, my rage grew as I thought of that young, naive 20-year-old girl, sitting in a bishop’s office, being told that she was the one who sinned by choosing, at the age of 16, to be in a relationship with a 31-year-old married father of three.  

So why share this story now?  It’s been so long.  Why not keep it a secret?  

Because secrecy is what allows abuse to thrive.  Because there is too much abuse in this world!  Because little 16-year-old children are usually not capable of sharing their stories.  So I am going to share it for them.  I am going to share it for little Heidi.  I need her to know that she didn’t do anything wrong.  She had nothing to repent of.   What she needed was someone to tell her that what happened to her was wrong.   That she was masterfully groomed.  

And what happened to D after that last phone call?  I know very little.  I know that once his business partnership with my dad failed, he moved on to the next family member and went into business with my older brother. It wasn’t until my brother was in the hospital with his wife as she was giving birth to their second child, that he found out that he wasn’t insured, that D had been keeping his monthly insurance payments for himself.  He stopped working for him after this and declared bankruptcy because of the large sums he had put on his credit card to help out D and the business, money that was never paid back.  The trust my family put into this man…it’s terrifying.  

I know he continued to serve as a leader in the church and has taught math classes to high schoolers and at a local university.  I am haunted by the thought that he has had other victims that I could have prevented had I been able to speak up sooner.  I know that J had a miracle fourth child after years of trying.  D wrote a book all about his gift.  It’s a fictional story, but the cover page says it’s based upon actual events from the author’s life.  He describes his smile in the book, “the corners of his lips curled into his usual peculiar smile, a smile that evoked arrogance, happiness, reassurance, and love, all at the same moment.”  I remember that smile well.   The way my heart would flutter when he flashed me his smile. 

He shares how distant he had become from his wife and children because of the demands of owning his own printing company.  “His wife and children became objects.  Possessions.  Things.  At times when it was convenient, he used them.  When they were a nuisance, he tolerated them.”  His words.  Not mine.  He writes about staying late at work, evading bill collectors, of lying to his wife about it all.  “Deception had become second nature to him.”  His book doesn’t even come close to the true deception that was happening. 

D writes of having a come to Jesus moment, when he finally realized how much his wife and family meant to him, how close he was to losing them because he was so consumed by his work and was letting depression take over.  He prays to God for a chance to turn his life around.  “Please!  I will be the best husband possible.  I will treat my wife and my children the way a good husband and father should.  Please!”

And he writes of love.  “Love.  He had not dissected that word in a treacherously long time.  Love.  Did that not mean something more than existing together?  And what kind of husband had he become?”  Maybe the kind of husband who has a love affair with a teenage girl.  Who spends hours and hours dissecting the word love with her, instead of his wife.  Who writes her love poems.  Who convinces a child that what they have is true love.  Maybe that’s the kind of husband you had become.   

He ends the book with this.  “I have been constantly asked if the story is true.  My response is always the same.  About 95%.   At times I’m sure my memory failed me.  And finally, at times, for the sake of the story, I just had to make a few things up.  But for the most part, it’s true.”  Well D, I’m here to help you tell the parts of the story you left out, or conveniently forgot.   And for those of you wanting to know how much of my story is true?  I wish it was fiction, loosely based on true events.  But it’s not.

Once D had his come to Jesus moment and his miracle baby arrived and he decided he would finally show up for his wife and family, he wrote, “I wish I could have the past several years back now that I realize how much I have missed.”  

Me Too 

I wish I could have those years back.  I wish I could have my first kiss back.  I wish I could have my first love back.  I wish I could have my innocence back.  I wish I had been free of all those years spent feeling like I had done something wrong, that I was a bad person.  

I am not afraid to tell my story now.  I hope a 16-yr-old child hears it and can realize that their 31-yr-old married lover is abusing them.  True love isn’t shrouded in secrecy and lies, in a gross imbalance of power and maturity.  I hope they have the bravery to tell their story to everyone they know.  And I really hope those who hear their story won’t judge them, but will hold them and tell them how sorry they are that they were mistreated, lied to, taken advantage of, groomed, abused.  Whatever word helps them understand the innocence of a child.