Thursday, Aug. 07, 2003 | 3:46 PM

I didn�t play Spin The Bottle until freshman year of college. I know that�s late�Spin the Bottle is supposed to be some kind of junior high rite of passage (at least according to Judy Blume books and The Wonder Years) but my childhood wasn�t like that. I�d waited in vein from the ages of 12 to 14, hoping that my perpetually spring fevered self would get to partake in the forbidden fruit of so many mouths upon so many mouths, but it never happened. By high school everyone was too sophisticated for shit like that. Spin the Bottle? I mean hello how bourgeois could you get? My teenage years were spent drinking absinthe in my mom�s basement and mounting sullen productions of Sartre�s No Exit for amusement. Kissing games were about as popular in my circle as cow tipping or voting Republican.

If high school was an attempt to re-create Les Deux Magots Caf� circa 1949, college was Animal House as re-conceived by Richard Kelly and Steve Malkamus. Spin the Bottle, like Karaoke, bowling, and neon flavored cocktails, was making its retro cool comeback. As long as you wore your very best smirk, all gooey sentimentality and adolescent yearnings were yours for the enjoying.

Ah irony�the great artistic leveler.

So� where was I?

Oh yes.

It was a Saturday night in the center of the universe, an Emerson dorm known as The Little Building which sat haphazardly on the edge of downtown Boston�s fabled Combat Zone. The Little Building had recently been converted from an office complex to student living quarters. By the end of the year it would take on a filthier, sleazier Chelsea hotel aura. But that was a long way off. On this autumn evening it was still as scrubbed and wholesome as a dentist�s waiting room.

I was one of many kids in a circle on the ground, all of us sitting Indian style and trying to be blas� while an old fashioned coke bottle twirled like a Busby Berkeley starlet again and again in the center of the room.

I can�t believe we�re doing this. This is sooooooo retarded.

But of course no one suggested stopping. Hipsterdom, like all genteel societies, has its own subtle code of ethics. I ask you, are there really so many degress of separation between Kim Gordon and Edith Wharton? I think not.

It was something else to watch people kiss. At first there were whoops and giggles from the peanut gallery, but once we settled into the game, a reverence fell upon the room�s incumbents.

How often do you bear witness to something so intimate?

It struck me how differently people kiss. Some people go at each other like fencing partners dueling�their tongues lunge and parry as though each one is attempting to foil the others heart. Some people approach their partner�s mouth as a sculptor would clay�molding and smoothing it into whatever shape they desire. Then there are those people with no art at all. They close their eyes and stick out their tongues as though they�re trying to catch a snowflake. Their bodies stiff and blunt as broom handles, their faces contorted in 180 degrees of shame.

There was a boy in the room�let�s call him Dawson �cause that was his name. Dawson was in my acting class. Besides being an actor he was also an artist and a pianist and a farm boy who hailed from the boonies of Maine. He had no sense of irony or sarcasm, which intrigued me to no end since I at that time was literally oozing both. Dawson possessed a combination of dynamic artistic brilliance and aw shucks naivete. Besides the fact that he worshiped Tom Waits, there wasn�t a hipster bone in his body, and that made him the coolest cat I�d ever come across.

I was head over heels gaga for the boy.

So was everyone.

As fate would have it, when it was Dawson�s turn to spin, the coke bottle/talisman in all its divine bounty landed on me. He smiled his impish smile and scuttled over to my end of the circle. On his hands and knees, Dawson planted a kiss on my mouth that made me think of Cary Grant screw ball comedies and big band music. It was only a few seconds but it seemed like hours.

When the game broke up I made a beeline for the elevator and relished being the only one on it. Just as the door was about to close, someone stuck their foot in.

Who, you may ask?

Dawson. Of course. I mean, would this have been an interesting story if it was Jack Ass McGee?

I was riding up the elevator with the boy of my dreams, whose exalted lip lock had just bewitched me.

He made a joke or two as I stared intently at each lit up number along the away of our ascension. His floor was lower than mine. Soon he would be gone and then who knew when I would be privy to such intimacy again?

The bell dinged and he stepped out.

Well goodnight, Anna Banana.

He tipped his jester hat and was about to turn away when suddenly I was possessed by the bravery that graces only the very enamored and the very very stupid.

I stepped off the elevator after him.

I invaded his space. We stood toe to toe.

Dawson�s sweet impish face was a great big cheeky question mark. He cocked his head ever so slightly waiting for me to say something.

But I didn�t say anything. Instead I put my hands on his shoulders and I gave him back the kiss he�d given me�the black and white Phliadelphia Story �One O� Clock Jump� kiss. And fire works went off as THE END scrolled across an imaginary screen like writing on a birthday cake.

And when I was through, when I released his lips, I stared at him mouth agape as though I�d been the one to have been caught off guard. In some ways I guess, I was. I had surprised myself. I wasn�t accustomed to grand romantic gestures. Not yet anyway. I was still too cool and too afraid for all that.

To my relief, Dawson laughed delightedly.

Wow. What was that for?

I regained my bearings and I said,

That was a coda to a game of spin the bottle.

He paused and stared at me a moment.

Oh. So you mean it wasn�t real then.

I leaned against the wall and sighed.

That�s right. It wasn�t real.

Dawson turned to leave. As he walked away I called after him.

But don�t worry. Someday it will be. Someday I�ll really kiss you. I promise.

He stopped short and looked over his shoulder. He laughed again.

We�ll see. he said We�ll see.

And you know what? I did kiss him. Really kiss him months later. Several times.

But that�s a different story for a different day.

Ah spin the bottle.

When else are the rules of love so clearly defined?