First Kiss

First Kiss

Everybody told me how lucky I was. Lucky to survive, lucky only one side of my face was cut, lucky most of the damage would be covered by clothes. Stabbed thirty two times, over two hundred stitches, and yet there was no organ damage. Oh yes, that was me, luckiest girl alive. If it happened today they would offer me cosmetic surgery, and my life might be dramatically different. As it was... it happened in 1987, when I was 16. At an age when most girls are going to discos and ensnaring pimply boys with their sticky lipgloss and overuse of cheap perfume, I was engaged in a never-ending round of doctor and hospital appointments, my face bandaged for weeks like some unfortunate monster in a Hammer Horror film.

When the bandages finally came off I somehow expected to be healed, to be miraculously taken back to the girl I had been. Instead the livid gash stretched from my right ear to the corner of my mouth, pulling the right side of my mouth up into a hideous parody of my previous carefree smile.

You might have read about me in the newspapers; the right wing press loved my case as it showed the flaws in the care in the community policies being adopted. A violent man with known mental issues being allowed to control his own medication? It was bound to happen eventually and it happened to me. Luck of the draw, and as I said, I'm the luckiest girl alive.

Overnight I became a ghost. Whenever anyone saw me I would watch them recoil in horror. The do-gooders would smile as though I'd lost my mind when I lost my face, patting themselves on the back at their tolerance of my deformity. Does that sound bitter? It's not meant to, it's just a statement of fact. It became easier to not be seen than to put up with the stares and the muttered comments, so I stopped going out in the daytime. I got my qualifications through the open university, and I did IT work from home. I could go weeks without seeing a soul, and that was how I liked it.


I did let my guard down at one point. When I was in my early 20s and the internet was in its infancy I used to post on a couple of techie bulletin boards. One of the men who posted there began an email correspondence with me. It seemed ideal; faceless interaction, a dream come true. Eventually he wanted to meet. I considered it for a long time then agreed, laying my rules down: just sex, fully clothed, in my car, then we would go our separate ways. As first times go it went pretty damn well until he brushed my hair back from my face and saw all the scarring. Nothing guaranteed to shrivel a hard cock more than realising your partner looks like the bride of Frankenstein, I guess. Still, I'd at least done it - at least I wouldn't die without knowing how it felt, just once, for someone to desire me, even if it was short-lived desire.

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