kiss me, kate

You know, he doesn’t kiss me.

And it kind of bothers me.

I brush my teeth pretty regularly, stay away from the onion and the garlic when he's around, keep the mint on hand….so I’m thinking it’s not my breath.

But nope, we just don't kiss.

And I think I know why. It’s ‘Pretty Woman’ syndrome, don’t you think?

Whores don’t kiss their clients. It might elicit ‘emotional attachment.’

(I guess that makes me his whore. Or vice versa.

It doesn’t really mean much to me, the word ‘whore’. It neither offends nor pleases me. It is like a piece of gum that has been chewed in too many different mouths too many times. It’s lost its flavor, it doesn’t stick to anything anymore. )

Anyways, if that is the case (and I will ask him one of these days), I do kind of understand his rationale. Isn’t a kiss is the most intimate thing we can share with someone?

How strange. That he has seen parts of me that the rest of the world hasn’t. That he can touch my hidden naked skin and put himself inside me. But our lips venture out into the world every day. Eyes have taken them in when we've talked, food has been pushed inside with a fork, the wind has chapped them and the sun has burnt them.…Yet he cannot touch his lips to mine.

He did kiss me once. I was pushed up against my living room wall by him, and his face was inches in front of mine. I looked right into his face and I know that I pleaded silently. I know my eyes were desperate for him. I might have even tilted my neck towards him. Really I was just screaming for it: ‘You’re here. I’m here. Kiss me goddamit!!’

I can say I need to be fucked. But ask for a kiss, and I’d be weak.

Maybe I read too much into it. But I do trust my instincts. I would have started the kiss myself if he hadn't looked so closed off all of a sudden. While my eyes were begging, his just seemed to hold back. I'm sure I didn't imagine it, his hesitation in that moment. I detected that hint of ‘I shouldn’t... but ah, what the hell?’ as he leaned over to comply. And he hasn’t kissed me again since.

But he took my lips briefly between his for a moment. For one lovely second the wet hot inside of his mouth surrounded my soft lips, distorted them upwards diagonally and then pulled away.

And then he moved down to my cunt.

I was more than happy for him to go there. But I do like to think about that one-second kiss.

Did the kiss become forbidden just by mere association? Because we know all too well how the formula goes? We’ve seen it in the movies: the couple falls in love, and then they invariably seal it with a soft openmouthed kiss. And then music plays in the background, and we are meant to understand that they are now happily bound to each other.

Usually a kiss is the first thing we can steal from someone. The first taste, the easiest part that can be taken. An opening, a beginning of something more.

Or maybe there is more to it than that. Are we uncomfortable with kisses because they bring our heads together? Because the blood rushes to our faces? Is that too close for comfort to our brains, to these reaching souls that drive the electricity of our bodies?

Maybe.

But it seems a shame. Because nothing turns me on more than a hot wet kiss.

My lips are a huge erogenous zone. I love how they rest every so slightly crooked across my face. The dip between two crests at the center when you trace your fingers across my upper lip. The points at the edges where the top and bottom lips meet, those points that deepen when I smile. And the feel of it, that different kind of skin, soft and rare, pink with pulsing vessels, tingling with nerve endings. And I haven’t even reached the inside of my mouth yet. The warm inside of my mouth, foreshadowing my cunt. That velvet raw smoothness of the insides of my cheeks, the contrast with my teeth. And my curious pliable tongue, waiting to explore slowly, to taste, to stroke and be stroked.

And when two mouths meet. Oh!

There is an equality to it that turns me on. Sometimes I think therein lies my attraction to girl-on-girl and guy-on-guy sex. Like when two women lean over for a kiss and push against each other, and their breasts smash against each other, and their nipples touch. That mirror image. Mmm…. that is the point where they’ve got me moaning.

That cymbal crash. That perfectly imperfect merging, mouth to mouth, lip to lip, tongue to tongue.

I’d like to kiss him. I’d like us to meet like that too, as equals. I like the challenge of being the yin to his yin, and the yang to his yang. I want to wrestle for control, bite gently on his lower lip as he tries to caress my upper lip, suck on his tongue as he tries to suck on mine.

I want to kiss and kiss and kiss until my lips are puffed and red, used and angry, while the rest of my body is pushed up against his, waiting impatiently to get in on the action. I want to kiss until I can take no more.

I think if he slipped a finger inside me afterwards he would discover just what kissing can do for me.

I want to kiss.

And as things tend to go, because it is the one thing I cannot get from him, I think about it all the time.