Her first kiss wasn't her first kiss. It was with a boy she didn't love, though she thought she did. It wasn't beautiful, or life-changing; it wasn't even slobbery or awkward. It was, simply, boring.
The kiss she prefers to remember as a "first kiss" was a lot more like what those are supposed to be. It was with the first boy she ever really loved - though he's not really a boy - and she thought she loved two before him. He was charming, confident, with the looks and skilled touch to back both of those up. And he wanted her. She was shy, quiet, reserved, didn't want to make the first move for fear of being rejected. So he, exasperated (though secretly he probably thought it was adorable), took what he wanted. And she gave it willingly.
Her first fuck wasn't her first fuck. It was hasty, unplanned, unprotected, unfinished. Almost unnoticed.
The fuck she prefers to remember as the night she lost her virginity...still wasn't what you'd expect. She was his birthday present. Birthday present, to that boy who doesn't want to be a boy, that never knew (because she never showed him) how much she loved him. It was better than she expected it would be - so little pain! and he had experience giving pleasure, so the lack of tenderness was almost made up for. In retrospect, she probably should have given him a better gift - she never was very good in bed.
Her first love wasn't her first love. She thought it was, for quite awhile, until she learned what infatuation truly felt like. Shortly thereafter, she learned what it felt like to hurt someone and not give a damn.
Her first love was irrational, unexpected, unfulfilled. He never once considered that she might want more from him, not until it was too late. Never once realized that though his spritely confidante gave her body to him willingly, gave him her ear as often as he needed it, she would have given him her heart if he'd ever thought to ask. He did think to ask, but by then it was too late. Too late to do anything, too late to make amends, too late to give the life she wanted a chance.
She goes through life forgetting all of this. She makes her life into a new storybook every time someone asks, rewriting the details as she sees fit that day. It's more fun that way. It makes more sense. Nobody wants to see the skeletons in the closet, or the rags hanging on the clothesline. They want shiny and new, beautiful, untouched. So that's what she gives them. It's what she does best.
Eventually, that shiny new untouched storybook life that she spins fresh becomes real to her. She makes it real for everyone else, makes it tangible with embellishments and tasteful omissions with just enough reality left in to make it palatable, and eventually she starts to believe it herself. Her memory works overtime, erasing and rewriting, until she genuinely doesn't remember certain things as having been real. The story becomes real and reality becomes a story, and though she's caught in her own tangled web, she doesn't mind. It's safe there.