KISS
AND TELL
"She doesn't put out, but boy, can she kiss!"
This comment could have been my college anthem. Kissing. A word that's as
sensual spoken as it is employed. The meeting of lips softly touching,
tentative, at first - testing the water to see if the boat floats - a slight
tilt of the head, shiny eyes wide open, mouth closed, the bob forward, a
hesitation, a quick-as-a-skiff skimming of lip to lip. Then, as if checking
for possible leaks in the craft, backing away, peering intently for signs
of
damage. No harm done, just glassy eyes staring back and the warm sweet scent
wafting close of peppermint and tobacco and musk oil, mingled with the
unconsciously emitted pheromones that send the captain back into possibly
rough waters.
"To Skipper, the girl with the wonderful kisses," the inscription
read on my
mom's high school yearbook. "Love you forever, 'Army.'" He might
have loved
her forever, but I will never know. She left him behind with his letter
sweater and class ring when, a few months later, she traveled off to college
to fall for (and kiss, I hope!) other men before marrying my father.
If not, she missed the best part of her youth - kissing for the pure joy of
it.
I'll never forget how my soft full lips, flavored with strawberry lip
gloss, floated against Chuck's moist lips which hid teeth armored in twin
rows of metal, like medieval knights locking arms to reinforce the perfect
mouth they lined. Our hungry mouths were so consuming that blood was drawn
in the encounter when metal met mortal flesh. I was too aggressive. He had
the bloody lip to prove it, too. Not my finest hour, but we managed to kiss
less passionately. Until his braces were removed, of course. Then it was
clear sailing. This definitely marked a defining moment of my kissing
career, and I don't say this just because I married the man behind those
lips. No, I can honestly say he is the only guy with braces on his teeth I
ever kissed.
There were many firsts, though. There was the first guy I kissed in each of
the fraternities. Not that I was aware of it at the time - nor was it a
conscious goal - but, as I reflect, I realize I kissed at least one
guy in each of the nine frats on my college campus. I don't remember all
their names and faces, but I bet I'd recognize their mouths. Like the one
with lips as tender as a cushion. The color of his hair and eyes escapes me,
but he produced the sweetest kisses, like the sensation you get biting into
a gauze of pink cotton candy. It quickly melts in your mouth, but the sugary
essence lingers longer. Too bad he flunked out my freshman year. His kisses
were missed.
Aaron's face I do remember. With black hair and blue eyes, he tipped my
attraction meter (I was always a sucker for guys with that combination). But
Aaron could not kiss. I might as well have been smooching my Old English
sheepdog, Sebastian, so wet and sloppy were his kisses. I had to drape my
waist-length hair in front of my face to hide wiping the slobber off of my
mouth when it got so slippery that his lips would skid off mine, ending up
on my eye. Aaron was a one-night stand on my kissing card.
Jon's was another memorable mouth, but in a different way, because Jon had
the thinnest lips I've ever kissed. Thin lips give me the feeling of falling
into a hole, particularly with a "French Kiss." There's just no
place to
rest my own lips; no padding to soften the buss. Jon, too, was a 'one-hit'
wonder.
Lips are an integral part of the equation. And they come in such a fabulous
selection of shapes and sizes that I felt it important to test as many as
possible. I've already established that thin lips often are not my favorite.
Not just because of Jon's mouth, but of Walt's as well. With lips as thin
as
a silk slip and as rough as a sow's ear, I felt as though my top layer of
tissue had been rubbed down with medium grit sandpaper. No amount of
Chapstick soothed my pain over the next few days.
In retrospect, it's interesting how my collegiate kissing demands had grown
from their humble roots in junior high school."Boys don't make passes
at girls
who wear glasses." If I had a quarter for every time I thought of this
Dorothy
Parker quip as I was growing up I'd now be living an early retirement. I soon
learned this fable to be false - that my glasses were merely a cover for my
pubescent inexperience - as my prince, Mark, proved on our walk home from
the eighth grade dance. Actually, as first kisses go, I'd have to rank it
in the
top 10 percentile. Mark could kiss! Not only that, his first kiss led to my
first
French kiss. There is something truly magical in the tingly naiveté
of a smooch
between 13-year-olds that literally weakens the knees. To have my first kiss
be of that magnitude was a blessing and a curse. Forever after that, I knew
the power of a good kiss from the misery of a bad one.
Mark was just the beginning. But after this enchanted start, I hit the dry
period of life, known as "the steady boyfriend." Not that the kisses
weren't
wonderful. They were! It was just that there were so many other lips to
lock. At 17, my trip to Spain as an exchange student offered just this
opportunity, starting with Jose Maria. Of course he caught my eye (black
haired and blue eyed). And I think it was a combination of his Catalonian
charm and his inability to speak English that set the mood. But his kisses
spoke their own language. Of red wine and rock music and innocence and
youth. Indescribably poignant. Unforgettably tender. Sorry, Cole Porter, a
kiss is not just a kiss.
My college years were an ecstatic blur of soft lips, rough lips, thin lips,
and thick lips. I remember tender kisses, rough kisses, passionate kisses
and shy kisses. Youth allowed me the opportunity of kissing for the pure
bliss of the act. It also permitted me to test the waters for a mate. Was
my choice of a partner based on kissing? I'd have to say no. But, if you ask
if I chose the best kisser, then I'd have to admit the truth. Yes.
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