🧿

She has several kisses.

The greeting kiss is perfunctory.  You don’t kiss a random stranger you meet on the street on the lips.  It is set aside in some ways as a marker, reserved for the person you do nasty things with.  Brothers and cousins and in-laws don’t get the greeting kiss.

Honestly, she sometimes forgets both the greeting kiss and the greeting hug.  The toolbag she was with before wasn’t very touchy-feely.  His fucking loss, trust me.  I am going to angle in for a greeting hug and a greeting kiss whenever I can because she is hot, and she smells good, and her body is a goddam celebration of womanhood.  And her lips are exquisite.

The neck kiss is intentional.  She does not kiss my neck just because she likes kissing my neck.  She has a hidden agenda.  Or maybe not hidden.  She is trying to turn me on.  She’s no dummy.  That shit works.  Superman has his kryptonite.  I have neck kisses.  If I don’t want to be distracted by a bulge in my crotch or a sudden insatiable urge to crush her up against the wall and rip her clothes off, I know to keep her lips well away from my neck.

There is the making out kiss.  This isn’t a binary thing, where one minute it’s a zero and the next minute it’s a one.  The making out kiss is reciprocal, and evolves over the course of a few seconds or maybe a few minutes.  This is our lips talking to each other and coming to an agreement.  Several questions are asked and answered.  Are you too busy?  Are you too distracted?  Is your breath fresh enough?  Are you still excited by me?  Are you ready to ignore the rest of the world for a minute?  This kiss may be proceeded by all manner of fuckery.  Or it may be proceeded by nothing more than dilated pupils and somewhat accelerated heart rates and an unspoken agreement to continue this at a time in the hopefully near future.

Before I wrap up, I should talk about the climax kiss.  

I’m a little reluctant to mention it.  Let’s be honest, she’ll probably read this.  And I don’t want to point this kiss out, shed light on it, make her in any way self-aware, or self-conscious.  I don’t want it to disappear due to my acknowledgement of its existence.  

The climax kiss is like the like the making out kiss, but unchained.  Teeth accidentally clink together.  Saliva goes from being present to being prevalent.  There is panting and biting and licking mixed in, at random, without calculation or caution.  She might grab my head and squash my face to hers.  Or she might be busy clenching the sheets.

I would hate to pick a favorite, but my God those climax kisses.  It’s hard not to interpret at a primal level the desperate need baked into her kiss as meaning “I want YOU.”   “I need YOU.” “I can think of nothing but YOU.” “Please give me more of - give me all of - YOU.”

And that’s the part in my story where my secret slips out.  That’s where I get exposed.  I’ve unintentionally reduced myself from the invincible narrator beyond reproach to a mere man - vulnerable, needy, and selfish.  

My physical relief is important, but satisfying it pales in significance to satisfying her.  Becoming everything to her, at least for that one moment.  Taking her where I want her to go, pushing her out into that abyss and then collapsing her down into the tiny crucible of her exhausted pleasure.

That last category of kiss, the climax kiss, serves as the manifestation of my secret, selfish success.  It doesn’t always happen, and it doesn’t need to.  But it sticks out in my mind as its own separate category.  

Lions cuddling