I’m not sure how it came to be, but for some reason, kissing another girl has become a bucket-list experience. Maybe it goes back to Sarah Michelle Gellar and Selma Blair’s saliva trail in Cruel Intentions. Maybe it was Madonna and Britney swapping spit at the VMAs a couple of years back. Or maybe it was Katy Perry’s writing a song for the masses about her own bi-curious experience. Who can say? And while I have no problem with those who wish to kiss others of the same sex, it was never an item that made my bucket list. Nevertheless, there is nothing (or rather, very little) that will stand between me and my quest for a scandalous story — and luckily for you, kissing girls is not one of those few things.

One Monday night over the summer I finally got my chance to play tonsil hockey with a dashing young lady (needless to say I’d have rather it been a dashing young lad, but I’ll take what I can get). After a long day at my office internship (that’s right, I had a legit nine to five, I don’t just sit at home and wait for sexual inspiration to hit so I can write another column) I received a text message from my good (yet sexually confused) friend Nicole. The message said “Party at my house. RIGHT HERE Bring your swimsuit. And don’t pretend you have better things to do. P.S. I made mojitos.”

In addition to enjoying the occasional mojito, I didn’t have anything better to do, so I grabbed my swimsuit and headed for Nicole’s townhouse. I arrived and found that most of the girls had already exchanged their bikini tops for coconut bras. Apparently it was a luau. So I got myself a coconut bra, downed the first of many mojitos, and headed for the backyard.

There I found a throng of already heavily-boozed partygoers in grass skirts and, of course, Nicole getting a game of bi-curious Twister started. I didn’t see bi-curious Twister in the cards for me that night, so I decided to join the grass skirts for some jungle juice and

more mojitos. About halfway through mojito number three, I started to befriend the other barflies. Nicole approached us to ask if we would join in round two of bi-curious Twister — round one had ended somewhat abruptly when Alex Rodriguez (rumored to be the cousin of CSI: Miami’s Adam Rodriguez) felt the sudden urge to throw up. I decided not to play. And even though I was severely chastised for “not having the balls to play,” I think it worked out better that way.

Somewhere around putting her left hand on yellow and her right on red Nicole asked if I would kiss the winner since I wouldn’t play. The night was young and full of possibilities, and I was stupid, so I said yes. Then she asked “even if it’s a girl?” Without any hesitation (by which I really mean “with minimal hesitation”), I agreed, knowing that it would make for an excellent column topic. I’m clearly selfless in my quest for cutting-edge journalism. 15 minutes later the game wound down and the Twister champion for the night was either going to be surprisingly well-coordinated (especially in her inebriated state of being) Emma Reid or painfully good-looking (even in his skirt) Ben Masters. Emma won. Honestly, I thought Emma seemed all too happy to collect her prize (a.k.a. me). Before I even had the chance to process what was going to happen, the coconuts of our matching bras clinked together and I was kissing Emma. So what was it like? It was a lot like kissing a guy. The main difference was her lack of stubble that would cause an aloe-worthy rash to form on my face the next day. Maybe her lips were a little softer than a man’s but maybe that was something that I imagined as I tried to create a mental list of differences between kissing girls and guys. In the grand scheme of things, it really wasn’t an epic moment in my life. In fact, the most memorable part was the cheering crowd of onlookers.

So that’s the verdict: Girls kiss girls for the reaction that they know they’ll get from the crowd. And now that you all know that I kissed a girl, the natural follow-up question is “did you like it?” Not really. Perhaps that’s just because she wasn’t wearing cherry chapstick, as Katy Perry taught me to expect. So fear not, lesbians of the world, I might not date you, but you can be sure that I’ll kiss you.