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K.I.S.S.I.N.G. (Nate)


You know it’s coming. He’s going to kiss you!

You met for a drink and took a walk in the rain. Now you’re back at his apartment, sitting on the couch, sharing a glass of wine. You’ve slipped off your still damp shoes and tucked your bare feet up, settling in to the over-softness of his canvas colored Pottery Barn couch (he actually has a couch! And it’s not from a thrift store, scratchy and plaid or sticky, slippery Naugahyde). As he passes you the glass he remarks at the smallness of your hands, so you hold your palms up together and compare: he’s got a full inch on you, each finger, your thumb is the size of his pinky.

This is the first time you’ve actually touched each other and you know he’s noticing the cool softness of your skin and the thin blue veins lacing through the white pinkness of your hand.

He wants to show you the book he was telling you about. He unfolds his long legs to retrieve it from across the room and you admire the squareness of his shoulders on his lanky body and the gentle swoop of his blond hair, still damp from the rain. He sits closer now, his knee and your knee, your hip and his hip. He sits back and shares the book across your laps. His arm shifts effortlessly behind your neck. He turns the pages and as you comment you feel his eyes resting on your profile, your lips. You pretend you don’t notice that he’s looking at you. He makes a joke and you smile the crooked smile that you know accentuates the dimple in your cheek. Can he see the sparkle in your eye and your long dark upturned lashes? He runs his fingers down the length of your forearm so you tilt your face towards him and catch his gaze. He’s going to kiss you!

You lean your head against the squareness of his shoulders and lift your lips to his. The familiar brush and press. And then…his tongue, hard and quick, darts out of his mouth and strikes your top lip, hitting your teeth and just as fast, pulling back. Quickly again, like a lizard tongue, but a hard sharp lizard tongue, it moves in and out, poking you in the lips, the teeth. You adjust your head and try a different angle as he relentlessly pummels you with tongue blows. What is he doing? You pull away and look him in the eyes, is he kidding? But his eyes still read dreamy and lustful so you try again. You plant a firm, closed mouth kiss to the side of his mouth and he moves to find your lips with his. Soon enough, there is his tongue again, battering your face, wet and hard and persistent. You try for a third time. There is saliva everywhere and swimming in this saliva, his flailing tongue whipping around. You’re completely disarmed. This is terrible!

Where in the world did he learn this technique? Hasn’t anyone ever schooled this man? Hasn’t he watched the movies and compared what he does with what everyone else is doing? You turn your head and rest the top of it under his chin.

“We’re moving too fast, I’m not comfortable with this.” In reality, you probably would have made out with him for hours if the kissing were pleasant. You slip on your shoes and he brushes the hair off your neck as you sit forward. He understands, but he doesn’t.

He wants to see you again. He calls you the next day. You’re busy with school and work; you’d like to see him but not tonight, maybe the weekend? You avoid his calls, send emails in response, sorry I missed you. You can’t bring yourself to see him again. If he’s that bad of a kisser, what must he be like in bed? He’s clearly not in tune with the subtleties of making love, of understanding another’s body and cues. Maybe you should tell him? What would you say? It’s not your job, you decide, to tell him he is, without question, the worst kisser ever.