Make out on the dance floor.

Make out on the dance floor. Please. It’s fun. Like, really fun. That sweaty, glowing, spine-tingling kind of fun that makes you forget your name and remember you have a body.

I did it in Glasgow, in 1997. It was at Archaos, a nightclub the size of the Colesseum, only stickier (and quite possibly, louder). 

I was young, overconfident, and kissing a beautiful man I had recently met in class. But in all honesty, I didn’t know it was him (my classmate). The house music was the soundtrack to the blockbuster romcom I was starring in. 

I made out in Bali, too, at a place in Kuta called Paddy’s Pub, right next to the Sari Club. I remember bamboo walls, the sea breeze, and wild dogs loitering outside like the grifter cabbies who trolled every baggage claim in a 2,000-mile radius. I danced and kissed like nothing bad could ever happen to me in the exact spot where more than 200 people would be killed. In one of the deadliest terrorist attacks in Indonesian history, a bomb had even torn through time, boring into my memory and staining it like a flood-damaged photo album with a strange tinge of survivor’s guilt over doing nothing but leaving, a month earlier. A moment of carefree (and careless) fun I had once felt lucky to have experienced, I now feel lucky to have survived. 

There was also Puerto Vallarta, slow dancing to Baby, I Love Your Way. And Mexico City, twice: at the posh bar with polished shoes and ice-cold cocktails, then at a sketchy rave “bar” that definitely violated several laws.

What I remember most isn’t the names or the music or even the kisses. It was the anonymity. The glorious invisibility that allowed me to be whoever I wanted for a night. The freedom to kiss like no one was watching. 

The feeling of being completely present in the moment – unconcerned about the past and oblivious to the future. 

The feeling of being alive.

To most of the men who met me on those dance floors and gave me a few hours of chemistry and escape: Thank you for the memories. 

But then there’s the memory I don’t love, and deeply wish I remembered less. 

Waking up naked next to a guy I sort of knew, sort of didn’t, with complicated ties to my past, which made it all worse. I didn’t feel attacked, exactly, but I didn’t feel okay either. So I did what some of us do when we don’t know how to process discomfort: I went back the next night and slept with him again. He thought I was coming back for more, and he couldn’t have been more wrong. I came back so I could rewrite the memory (or at least the end of it) on my terms. To feel like I had control.

I walked away feeling like a badass. Three hours later, in line for the morning-after pill, I felt like trash. Not because of the sex, but because of the voice in my head. The voice that sounded an awful lot like my mother’s. And society’s. And every cultural message that ever suggested that a woman who owns her pleasure is somehow dirty.

So now I’m a mom. And I ask myself: do I want my daughter to feel that way?

No.

And yet – no, and also – I want her to feel. I want her to dance and kiss and burn with aliveness. But I want her to know where her boundaries are. I want her to be brave enough to say yes, and strong enough to say no. I want her to recognize the difference between desire and pressure, between fun and manipulation, between being lit up and being used.

Because kissing on the dance floor is fucking awesome. It’s joy. It’s chemistry. It’s youth and freedom and the music too loud to hear your doubts.

But it doesn’t come with a manual. And too often, we leave girls to figure it out alone. We pretend we never made mistakes. We slut-shame the bold ones and leave the quiet ones to fend for themselves. We hand out vague warnings instead of real talk.

What if we changed that?

What if we told the truth? What if we said: Yes, I’ve done it. Some nights were amazing. Some nights wrecked me. But every single moment taught me something.

And what if we stopped judging each other? Stopped whispering “slut” and started asking, “Are you okay?” What if we made space for women to explore their joy without being punished for it?

So, will my daughter remember my words? What will my advice be? How will I phrase it? 

I’m still figuring it out. But I’m the kind of woman who remembers. Who won’t lie. Who will say: Don’t make out in public (unless it’s on a dance floor with good music, strong legs, and a sense of who you are).

And if you forget who you are for a second – because we all do – come talk to me. I’ve been there. I still carry it all. The good. The bad. The foggy. The fire. The freedom. And I thank God for it all because I would not change a thing.