Tag: making out

You Kiss Badly

There has been a thorough appreciation of amazing kissers on this blog (since it’s inception almost a year ago, Happy Birthday HillaryofTroy!!) but a willful ignorance of those who, by all accounts, are physically incapable of kissing someone in a manner that is enjoyable. This is about the bad kissers of the world, with a little indignant ranting about their introduction into my life.

I had no idea how lucky I was. Up until about a year ago every guy I’d kissed seemed to know what he was about and this came to be my expectation from anyone with the audacity to invade my personal space- and my mouth. Which I still consider to be reasonable. Sadly, there have been a few guys lately who have fallen far short, and it made me think that these sad specimens of masculinity may be in the majority, running rampant and ruining otherwise lovely evenings. It turns out everyone has encountered bad kissers and yet I had no idea what I was in for with guys who licked my cheek, bit my lip (like really hard- there was a bruise), and made a good try at suffocating me with their tongue. Why would anyone find that fun?

To be fair I can’t be upset that no one has told these people what a menace to romantically inclined social interaction they are because I didn’t say anything either. I was selfishly concerned with the welfare of my face. And yet, I still don’t understand how one makes it to their twenties thinking that this sort of behavior is acceptable. There can’t be anyone who puts up with this kind of thing more than once (I’m a big fan of the “never ever answer your calls” method), which I’d think might lead to a little self-reflection, but apparently not. So, for those persons, when in doubt, keep it simple. You’ve just met this girl. For whatever reason she has tolerated your company for some period of time without excessive trips to the bathroom and people across the room she needs to speak to. Then again, that could be assuming a lot, perhaps you’ve thrown the nearest female up against a handy flat surface, in which case, I have to say from experience, that you really ought to make it worth her while. Either way, your fancy tricks are unappreciated as you are executing them very very badly to the chagrin of all involved. Thanks for your interest, please move on. I hate to fall back on cliches without a good excuse, or to call any well meaning gentleman a frog, but if the slime fits…

My future paramours are probably not going to read this warning, but I can only hope that the tide of my romantic luck will change for the better. And wish the talented kissers of the world will find you, too.

Happy kissing xxxx

Making Out with Strangers

subwaykissFirst of all, I just have to say that I am not the kind of girl that makes out with strangers. Whatever kind of girl that is.

On a Tuesday morning in late February I took this particular train to a job interview in Camden. And in black stilettos and a waistcoat that displayed my assets to best effect I also took the train back home. While waiting on the platform a tall, dark, and exceptionally well-dressed man stands next to me.

“Excuse me? I want to go to Green Park. Is this the right train?”

After fumbling with my iPod earphones and realizing that he is in fact speaking to me in his Spanish-British accent I tell him that Green Park is only two stops from where we are, obviously.

“So this is the train you’re getting on?”

“Yes.”

“You’re American, aren’t you?”

The all but empty train pulls into the station and we get on, and stand facing one another on opposite sides of the car. I nod, but since I don’t really have any idea what’s going on, I wait for him to say something else, not that it’s really his words that I am paying any attention to.

“Well you don’t seem American.”

“What do I seem like?” Seeing as I can’t really hear him over the clattering of the tube down the rails, it seems best to go with short sentences. His solution is a little different. He comes over to my side and leans against the wall above me.

“You seem like sunshine.” It’s a really good thing I am not paying attention to what he’s saying at this point.

Then the announcement sounds: Next stop, Green Park.

And then there’s the moment. Eye contact and a sudden and perfect understanding of the fact that we will never see each other again, we probably won’t get another chance to take advantage of how good we look this morning, and the idea of it not happening is so ridiculous that it doesn’t even merit contemplation. And that’s when I made out with a complete stranger on the Piccadilly line. It couldn’t have been more than a few (extremely sensual, slow, hot, perfect) kisses when the train stopped. The doors opened, we smiled at one another, and he picked up his briefcase and went off to work. The bubble of perfection that had formed in that first moment of eye contact popped.

I was left with a mild case of whisker burn, glares from the elderly English matron across the aisle, and a smile.

Then I realized how crazy the moment was. Because contrary to the training of fairytales and grandmothers alike I did not want to know this guy’s name, would really prefer it if I never saw him again, and certainly would not be stalking the Piccadilly line at the same time everyday trying to find him and relive the fantasy. Because we had somehow just created the most perfect moment of attraction and indulgence to ever achieve reality, and to do anything other than let it exist would be to spoil it.

Being thoroughly visceral I have fully embraced the prospect and the perks of a relationship without an ounce of commitment or intimacy. Just a healthy dose of passion.