Have you ever noticed how, when you don't get enough sleep for a few days in a row, you just ache all over? Huh? Maybe that's just me.
So, I tried to Google "A really great kiss" and well, nothing really encouraging came up. There were lots of people needing good kisses, and lots of advice on how to give good kisses, and lots of people questioning the validity of kissing at all, but no stories on good kisses. Maybe I didn't look hard enough, but I'm too tired to spend hours Google searching. Ten minutes is enough.
Frankly, I don't need a story about a very good kiss; I have one of my own.
And, since clearly the internet is lacking on non-fictional stories involving a good kiss. And, well, I hope that the guy finds this to be a compliment should he ever read it, I'll tell mine. Some of this is from memory, a fair amount is pulled from a journal I was writing and sketching in at the time.
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I met him at EPIK orientation in 2010. I thought he was beautiful from the moment I saw him. I remember being so confident that life was about taking opportunities, and being involved. So, I walked over to him and introduced myself. I loved his eyes immediately, and his mouth. Not quite as much as the Australian's mouth (haha, oh my gosh, so there was this Australian guy with the full lumberjack beard and a tan and these full, plump, expressive lips and he sat across from me at meal one day I could barely take my eyes off his mouth), but enough of that. So, I introduced myself and ask his name. Then, in my fashion, I promptly insulted him, and he responded with ease and aplomb. I was immediately impressed.
Over the course of the next 10 months or so we messaged occasionally online. And then one day, after babysitting for some friends, I messaged him. I hadn't gone to any New Year's celebrations because I didn't want a stranger to kiss me. Frankly, I was kind of afraid my "kiss was broken." See, I had a boyfriend back about 8 years ago (seven at the time) and kissing him was...terrible; repeatedly, embarrassingly, terrible. If I think back too hard on it I want to cry. I want to cry about how much I lied when I said I liked it, how every kiss left me feeling a little dead inside. How, if I was lucky I felt full, but numb, hallow, trying to fill up hollowness with kisses that didn't work. I didn't want it to happen again. I didn't want to kiss another guy and confirm that there was something wrong with me.
Well, he told me he'd give me a New Year's kiss, after all, he wasn't a stranger. And I, in an act which was extraordinarily out of character, said yes.
Now, when I was in Spain a classmate kiss-kissed me one night and our lips brushed. I felt a shock through my body, though I doubt he noticed, being quite drunk as he was, but I chalked that up to the shock of having a mouth touch mine. After all, the first second or so of kisses with that old boyfriend left that same shock of something before my heart and mind detached, turning me into a kissing zombie.
But now, now I'd said yes, to what I didn't know. A date? A kiss? More than a kiss? I was going to spend a weekend with him, me, for the offer of a kiss, with a guy. We chatted so much online during the week or two before I saw him. And when I did I was so nervous.
He put me at ease so quickly. He has a way like that, a way of looking at people like they're the only thing important to him in that moment. I knew I wasn't important to him in the long run, but I was surprised at how comfortable I was with having him for a moment. I always thought I'd be insecure, jealous, but I wasn't, we're still friends and I hear about new girls and I'm not. It's something I hadn't known about myself until then.
We hiked. I forget so many words. English words. I spilled red soup down a white sweater and ended up in my skin tight undershirt. It was ridiculous and funny. The poor lady at the soup restaurant was in tragic exasperation over the spilled soup, I just laughed. I learned a long time ago to laugh at myself. I'm thankful for that.
I was trembling, my teeth nearly chattering, mostly from the cold, partly with the restraint it took not to touch him. He tried to get me to drink, I spilled the wine in the carpet.
We watched movies, and he took my hand. I didn't know what to do, it had been so long and I felt so different around him. The experience, I couldn't even compare it to previous ones. I was so hyped up, but not because I was uncomfortable, but because...I felt like anything was possible. He eased my hand from its fist, caressed my fingers and palm and wrist with a rhythm that somehow matched the pulsing of the blood inside me, held my hand, twined our fingers together, rubbed his thumb over the pulse point on my wrist and my arm went up in flames. It burned inside and remade itself. I went to the bathroom and I was drenched. I won't go into detail there, but from what I know of magazines like Cosmo, that hardly ever happens at all, let alone just by hand touching.
He wanted to kiss, I wouldn't let him. I felt horribly guilty for it but I was holding an ocean back with sandbags and I didn't know if one hole would send the whole thing crashing down. I wasn't sure I could deal with myself. We snuggled and ALL I could think about was laying my body across is and putting my mouth on any part of him he'd let me. I laid there stiff, burning, trying to hold the pieces of myself together as every atom of my body was drawn to him, wanted to orbit him. I eventually sent him to his room. I knew that if I woke to his face there would be no holding myself back. I didn't want to do that, I didn't want to know whether he'd let me do that.
The next day we went to the park, he pushed me on a swing, he taught me how to play chess and then kicked my ass at it. I wanted my tongue in his mouth.
As we walked to the bus I asked him if he wanted to see me again the next weekend and he was surprised, because to his estimation I'd rejected him. I wished I could tell him why I behaved the way I did, I didn't think I could speak the words. Virgins are supposed to be asexual, we're not supposed to be horny from holding hands. Even still, he accepted.
The next time I saw him I met him in Daegu. He said a friend would come, the friend never did. We sat at a park and watched children, sat leg to leg, held hands, talked, he smelled my hair, my neck, and I felt it like a spiraling heat from the tip of my head to my blushing heals.
We were going to go to a movie, and I was determined to kiss him if he'd let me. Damn it, he wanted to kiss me! Then the movie times didn't work, and right across the street was a DVD bang. That's a place where you can rent a movie and sit in the living room watching it, but you never have to go home to do it. They have dozens of living rooms with large screen TVs where you can just pop in a movie. It's a great place to make out. I knew it, and I could see in his eyes that he knew it too when he asked me if I wanted to do that instead. I said yes.
We started watching Lars And the Real girl, reclining on this bed/couch thing every room in the DVD bang had, tight next to each other, me pretending to watch the movie when really I'm trying not to be aware of him with every atom of my being. I kept wondering, why did this never happen with the old boyfriend? I kept thinking holy shit, holy shit, this is actually happening.
He took my hand in his, just like he had before. I was trying to think of the movie, there was a movie, my hand distracted me. Movie, movie, hand, touching, caressing each finger, wrist, trying not to let my eyes flutter shut in ecstasy. For the first time I touched back, trying to mimic, hoping to have some kind of effect, trying to think though what was surely the synapses in my brain beginning to short out. And fire crept over my skin.
He let go of my hand and let me do the touching. I touched his veins, the pads of his hands, his long thin fingers, and wrist; moved up his arm to the course hair and hard muscle underneath. He touched my shoulders when I stopped, massaged them far better than anyone had before, one at a time, touched my arms, over and over, up and down, soft and firm. Collar bone, neck. I rested my head on his chest and he laid his fingers over my pulse, told me my heart was pounding. I think I laughed. I was in cardiac arrest. His heart was pounding too, it felt good to know I had an effect.
He stared down at me and I felt it, I didn't look at him, I was trying to remember how to do more than feel, but I said "Hi again," because, really, those were the only words I could think of. He took them as the invitation that they were.
Our lips brushed, it was soft and pleasant, a meeting, a greeting, a sip. Just right.
Our legs twined together, his arm wrapped around my waist and we went back to pretending to watch the movie. I could tell you what it was about, and that there were some awful patterns on the walls, but no lines. My senses were no focused on the auditory. He nuzzled my face, a request, and I turned toward him, a little wetter, a little longer, a little more intense. I tried to keep up, felt like I failed, tried to memorize every sensation at once. Took that plump bottom lip I'd stared at during the chess game into my mouth with satisfaction.
I stopped him after several kissed, made him let me do it on my own because I was so overwhelmed my him. He needed to be still and let me do it. God, I was going to die if I didn't kiss him myself. I still remember the feel of his abs, his chest, his collar bones, his back. They are burned into my memory. I expected him to be static, to be unhappy with my taking charge, instead he was more intense, open mouthed and I felt the brief touch of teeth and tongue. A hand held my back, another touched my face and neck.
And I wasn't afraid.
I was exhilarated. I was flying and I was dying.
His hand slipped under my shirt, held my shoulder, skin to skin, and it was like the kiss times two.
I burned.
We continued on, movie, simple touches, kisses, he tried to slip his hand down my shirt and up my thigh. I stopped him because if I didn't stop him when he was just getting started I knew wouldn't ever.
He contented himself with squeezing my thigh, which sent a lazy thick sizzling around my body. He kissed my cheek, forehead, and nose. Touched my face and ear. I felt special, noticed.
I ventured my hand up his arm to his neck and face and hair. I didn't know what was "ok" to touch, I was always under the impression that guys could be scary, and I knew I was very choosy about who I let touch me. He'd said I could touch him. I want to so bad. I didn't believe him, but I was trying to. I loved the sandpaper feel of his stubble against my hand and mouth (you know, sometimes I wonder if I never quite came out of that "oral phase" because more often then not I see a man I like and just...want to put my mouth on him). I enjoyed how soft and defined his mouth was.
By this time we had changed positions somewhat. I opened my eyes to watch him hover over me, his own eyes closed, loved the look of absolute focus on his face. He held my hand to him when I tried to take it away, I felt...I don't even know, amazing.
His tongue darted out again, grazed my teeth and tongue, filled me up with sparking ash, my own tongue caressed that plump lip that I was suddenly obsessed with.
His hands delved into my hair and he made soft noises in his throat that made it so difficult to stop.
The movie ended and he took the opportunity to lay his body over mine, though he needn't have waited for the dark to do it. Breasts and chest, arms and hands, mouth and mouth, thighs. I felt so warm and relaxed, like I could sleep, like I was made of molasses) His body moved against mine, just once, and it was like the lights shutting off in my brain. Sorry, not open for business, out for a while, come back later. His weight, the feel of his body, so hard against mine. I nearly came.
My body knew what to do, it was ready to go. What little rational was left in my mind was screaming something like hell in a hand-basket!
It took effort to get him to let me up. Mostly because I was having difficulty regaining the use of my arms.
Kissing didn't end, I couldn't stop it, my body was firmly against listening to me.
His tongue was soft and strong, no flavor but him, neither hot nor cold. I wanted to touch his tongue back, not just use it on his lips but I was nervous about this thing inside of me and how little control I had left. I wanted to make noise for all the shutters of pleasure that ran through me. I couldn't do it. But you know what, that's ok. It was my first kiss in seven years. I think I did pretty damn good.
When I sat up he clung to me and I was grateful, I needed him to not just let me go.
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