I have three people I regularly kiss. Eric. Tucker. Alyssa.
Alyssa’s spirited kissing, so genuine and true, has awakened my thoughts on the topic. Alyssa kisses me in such a way that we, together, become the kiss. She kisses, enveloping me in her robust, full-lipped abandon. She kisses, embracing me in her naked certainty and raw sureness. She kisses, lacking all reservation or hesitation, wanting for nothing but the kiss itself, and basking in the beauty of oblivity to the sting of love’s pain. I savor and cherish each time Alyssa’s lips share a kiss with me.
I don’t remember when Tucker’s kiss changed from embarking on an experience of pure sweetness into tedious obligation. It happened, like the way September steals the primal heat of the summer sun. Sneaky yet stealthily. Tucker‘s sincere and generous love for me conflicts with his acute desire to minimize his display of affection for me. Particularly kissing affection. When I kiss Tucker, he avoids my lips altogether. Instead, he brushes his lips across my cheek, only. If I stick my lips out, he grazes them or my chin, hastily. Now, Tucker kisses me out of obligation, with complete hesitation, and absolutely no elation. I still relish each time Tucker’s lips come in proximity of any of my facial parts.
As for kissing Eric, I have one sharable kiss story out of several thousand kisses. Our first kiss. In high school. At Hamlet Park in Cottage Grove. I wore my nylon green, girl’s track, warm-up suit. Lying in the night grass, Eric was on top of me. He held me close, his body sliding against the slippery fabric of my warm-up. He blew a bubble with his gum. I popped it with my teeth. He kissed me, twice. One right after the other. Eric said, “I’m going to marry you.” He looked at me. I kissed him, this time.
Eric responded, kissing me again, open mouthed. He inhaled deeply, his lips still attached to my mine. Exhaling, he blew my cheeks full of his lung air, and with that same breath, blew his bubble gum into the back of my throat. His gum lodged itself at the top of my esophagus. Choking, I pushed him off me and sat up. He patted my back. I hacked the gum out of my throat onto my tongue. I spit the pink wad on the ground. Standing up, I walked away. Eric followed behind the soft swishing of my nylon suit and asked, “So, you don’t like Hubba Bubba?”
Kiss. More complex than a sensuous noun. Kissing. Not always a sensual verb. Memoir of Me -- Personalized Books. What about you?
This is a pic of Eric not blowing his gum down my throat.
