Sometimes we lack the words to describe our experiences accurately. My first kiss happened at age 17 while a counselor at church camp. (Yeah, I know; I'm a bit slow on everything.)
While I was home from college, age 20-1, we went south for a vacation. My notorious cousin Paul set the three of us "northern" gals up with "doggies" (Keesler Air Force Base airmen). I disliked the man who lited on me. He was very intelligent, but low principled, a real cad. I'm allergic to smoke, but that didn't slow him down much. He wanted to French kiss. I discovered that I intensely dislike "smoked tongue".
When I went back to school, a helpful aunt had allowed him access to my dorm address, (which I had refused to give.) He sent me a statue of a bloodhound sitting on its haunches, French beret tipped at a rakish angle on top of his head. From his open mouth lolled a strip of bright red felt, clear to his toes. The legend read, "You've never really been kissed.
The statue won instant fame up and down the halls of the New Girl's Dorm.
Yes, I actually HAD *really* been kissed, at 17, by a highly intelligent minister's son, a 23 year old man of the world...respectfully, reverently, without the smoke... I just didn't know the difference between lips closed and lips open, tongue behind your own teeth, or roaming freely behind someone else's. I didn't know what KIND of kiss it was at the time. Labeling, it seems, makes all the difference.