And then it comes, the blaze of our first kiss. It is a bottomless kiss, soft and tender, hard and unrelenting, hungry, but not sated. He pulls back but only long enough to whisper, “Is this what you had in mind?” His kiss is with the agility of vast experience. As I lose myself inside of his kiss, I wonder if there is a hall of fame for ‘the best of the best’ somewhere in the Smithsonian, and remind myself to Google kisses later.
Have you been kissed like this?
I like to think everyone has known the thrill of this sort of kiss at least once in their lifetime. I also hope it’s not a one time event, rather there multiple moments when the ground disappears.
One of my top twenty favorite songs is Passionate Kisses, written by Lucinda Williams:
Is it too much to ask
I want a comfortable bed that won’t hurt my back
Food to fill me up
And warm clothes and all that stuff
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have all of this, and
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you
I should! I think to myself whenever I hear this song. And then, I set about to making sure I do. But that’s another story.
I am writer with a bent for writing stories with a passionate twist, thus there is always a blank page waiting for the description of the first kiss between the lovers in my story. While I don’t limit myself to fiery narratives, I will confess to a long standing fascination with the many facets of love.
Love is one of those themes that had endless possibilities.
Love of music
And on the list goes
I’ve dabbled with a few themes from the list but romantic love is what entices me. How to describe the flutter in my stomach, the rush of my pulse, the pounding in my heart, the taste of the kiss, just slays me. As much as I am enthralled with the notion of falling deeply, is how the mind loses all control and becomes a slave to the logic-deprived actions of the heart.
But this wasn’t always the case…
When I first came out of the closet and declared myself a writer I thought I should aspire to be lofty, be literary, use words that required a dictionary to understand. I believed dense, opaque writing would find me obscure fame and place on the table of contents of The New Yorker.
I know why I felt this was who I should be as writer. I succumbed to the pressure of the workshop, drank the green Kool-Aid, and convinced myself I was like my classmates—a literary-ista wannabe. Oh yes, this was my destiny. I drove home the night of my first meeting spewing platitudes believing my manufactured revelation to be my fate as a writer. I was euphoric. I had a blueprint to the table of contents of The New Yorker, maybe even The Atlantic.
The problem was no matter how hard I tried to write poetic prose I continued doodling little hearts. I drew big ones, interlinking ones. I drew on the notebooks that I carried with me at all times. Nothing was safe from my wandering pen: napkins, the inside of a gum wrapper, and even on the tops of my thighs, I drew hearts with my trusty red Sharpie.
I was not destined to be a literary-ista.
Instead, I chronicle the stories of quirky characters longing to explore love—in all it’s flavors—upon the page. It’s what my inner vixen wanted to write, although she does not prohibit me from spreading my wings.
What puts the bounce in your step and the flutter in the pit of your stomach, beside a kiss, of course?