I just love kissing.
The summer I turned from 12 to 13 I had my first kiss from a boy. His name was Stephen and he was a year older than me. We were playing truth or dare at his house with some other friends. He was dared to kiss me and he said no. None of us were kissing, at least not openly, at that age. But later, when most of the other friends had left, he took me behind his shed and kissed me. It was quick, but sweet. We snuck a few more kisses in that summer but then he left for highschool and that was the end of that.
I had three boyfriends in grade nine. My friend Becky’s older brother Terry, my future husband Shawn and a boy from my science class named Mike.
Terry and Shawn’s kisses were lovely. Full of the innocence of being 14 and smitten with the ideas of boys, boyfriends and kissing as abstract delights. Mike, however, my rebound after the break up with Shawn, stuck his tongue in my mouth without preamble or warning and, shocked, I broke up with him. I transferred high schools and had many long talks with my girlfriends about open mouthed kissing. We all came to the quick conclusion that Mike had NO IDEA what he was doing and further research was needed.
Enter in some of the best kissing years of my life. Teenaged kissing is wonderful. It can go on for hours, till your lips are raw and your mouth is tired and yet, the appeal of someone else sharing that intimacy is so painfully acute and delicious you keep going. I got good at it. Everywhere became a perfect place to kiss. Cars, movie theatres, in back hallways at school, sitting on couches and park benches.
All it would take was a brush of the fingers, a soft and meaningful look and next thing you know, lips touched lips and the waking dream of kissing started again.
There are some really important kisses in life. First kisses, those oh so beautiful memories. Cheek kisses you share with people you love more than a hug or a handshake. That first kiss at the end of your wedding. The first time you kiss your newborn baby. The first time your child kisses you.
There are really sad kisses. Kisses goodbye. Kisses when you know something is ending. As a kid, being told to kiss relatives you barely know are pretty high on the ‘sad kiss’ scale.
There are dangerous kisses too. And drunk kisses. And stolen kisses. And forbidden kisses.
I’m getting older and I’ve been married a long time. We don’t “make out” anymore. Don’t get me wrong, we kiss all the time but as for hour long or more lip locks, well… We’re not teenagers anymore. We’re tired and we like Netflix too much.
But every so often, even after knowing one another for so long, it happens.
Our eyes meet and instead of a tertiary glance, things transpire through that gaze. A million conversations happen. A million memories pass by. We’ll lean in, our bodies automatically remembering just where and how we fit together. Sometimes he touches my hair. Sometimes I rest my head in that divot by his collarbone. We’ll smile and our lips will touch. For an instant that old electricity comes back, the one two teenagers had in the park many, many years ago. His lips are still soft. And they know mine.
I love everything about kissing.