Wednesday, November 1, 2017

Kissing


At my advanced age, I still get that same glorious thrill when I kiss a woman on the lips for the first time as I ever did.  That hasn't changed.

Kissing is, to put it simply and directly, sublime. My lips on hers. Her wanting this, kissing me back. No doubt about her wanting this. "Here I am," she's saying, unspoken, lips against mine. "This is me. Do you want me? I want you." There is an unspoken knowledge exchanged between two people when they kiss. No, I don't learn everything about a woman from a passionate kiss. But how else can you learn so much about someone so quickly?

I believe kissing is the most underrated of all physical encounters between a man and a woman. (How often does a guy ask you, "Hey, did you kiss her?)  I'm often more intimate with a woman by kissing her than having her perform some Cirque du Soleil act found on page 1023 of the Kama Sutra. Not that I'm against said act or acts. Or making love. That has its majesty.  At its best...well, I don't want to sound like some antediluvian mother telling her teenage daughter, "When two people love each other very, very much...."
                                                                      

A passionate kiss. Here, I have to turn to Lucinda Williams. She has a great song called "Passionate Kisses". In the song she lists all the things she deserves (comfortable bed, clothes, a rock 'n' roll band), but the thing she wants is "Passionate kisses from you." No wedding ring, no keep-me-warm-at-night, none of that. Passionate kisses. I don't know about you, but that lyric sends an almost illegal thrill through me. And I want to say, "Yes, Lucinda, you do deserve that! And, Lucinda, I can give you passionate kisses! Whoa oh oh.) There are a zillion songs about kissing (not to mention poems), but this one.... Come to think of it, I would love to kiss Lucinda Williams. I'll bet she's a great kisser. Are you there Lucinda? It's me, Richard.

While there's nothing better than someone who knows how to kiss well, there is nothing more disappointing than someone who doesn't. I've heard women lament about a man they've met, "He's a lousy kisser." And on-line, I've seen this posted by women again and again, "Must be a good kisser!!!" The disappointment you feel when you are with someone who is not a good kisser extends all through your body, from your head to your heart all the way to your toes. There is something fundamental missing here. Something which can be so exalted--kissing--suddenly has all the romance of changing your spark plugs. You feel cheated.
                                                                      

The pleasure of kissing doesn't depend on whether or not some organ responds or how short or long it is or how long the act lasts or lubrication or what kind of orgasm you want or any other meddlesome physical requirement. You and she can kiss until you drop without worrying about any corporal malfunction. Years after my final erection is but a dim memory, I'll still be able to give her a big smack on the lips. Or a pillow-soft one.

What kind of lips? Full lips! Oh, God, yes. Lips you can get lost in.

I've stayed away from tongues here, but you and I both know that tongues take kissing to another level. A tongue in the mouth.  Tongues touching, responding, exploring.  Slithering with abandon.  Rhapsody.

I’ve had marathon kissing sessions that have been some of the most erotic experiences of my life.  "Marathon" makes it seem like a trial, but that was not what it was at all. They were three act plays, vacations, romps, picnics, celebrations, masses. The last great kissing session I had was with a woman in her sixties. We went at it like heroes. We kissed and kissed and kissed. We were on her couch, madly wanting one another, madly giving and taking, madly pressing lips against lips—hard, soft, medium, slow, fast, deep.  Lips respond happily to almost any kind of pressure—light, hard, glancing, rapid, endless. I kissed her so hard I thought we’d both faint, drown or disappear, but we didn’t. We wanted more. She wanted more. I wanted more.  We were fully clothed.  I don’t need to be naked or half naked or one quarter naked. If I’m kissing like a bee drunk on pollen, I don’t have time to unbutton anything.  I don’t want to unbutton anything. This is all that I want. This is everything. We didn’t say a word. We spoke in tongues. We spoke without language. This was heaven on earth.
When we finally stopped after—what was it? Thirty minutes?—we looked at one another in astonishment. I knew, and she knew, that, given a few minutes to restore ourselves, we could go back under. I still think about that afternoon. It was a kind of miracle, and I have hardly felt more alive.  
   
These are two of the most exciting words you'll ever hear, or say.  Unlike me, they have no expiration date:

"Kiss me!"

                                                                             



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