A Iss

When we are young, a kiss is electric. A kiss means so many things; we are unable to describe our feelings. So, why then do we forget the meaning of a kiss once we are settled? I find it unfortunate, and I must favor the continued use of this simple, yet elegant device of sensuality.

I love the feeling of two lips moving together, exploring, building passion, then moving faster, more urgently. It can connect to people on a whole other level, something that cannot be achieved by mere groping, or rubbing, or fucking.

So it was, one night, a date to be more specific, that I learned the intricacies of a kiss. We met online, as is more common these days, yet still slightly taboo. Regardless, it happened as it did, and I do not regret it with a single ounce of my soul. It was a rainy, cold day in March, perhaps the least ideal of any day to meet. And a Monday, of all times, if you might believe it.

I had trouble finding a parking spot, for it was a college town, and new to me, though I lived fairly close. We had talked on the phone; chatted about the usual things that one speaks of when getting to know another, and had decided to meet. We first spoke on a Sunday, I believe. We met that Monday. Was it quick? Yes. Do I regret it? Not one single bit.

I finally found a parking spot, thanks to her direction, the city being what it was, a jumbled mass of one way streets and double parked cars begging for a ticket (no thank you). The parking garage was three away from being full, but I made it. I bounded down the stairs, excited yet tempered, having been on several of these dates before, yet sorely disappointed.

Why meet online, might you ask? Could I not find a real date? Well, yes. And no. Look, I don't date the women I work with. Simply put, I find it unprofessional. So, who then? Old classmates? Perhaps, but had I wanted to date them I would have already asked. So whom do you suggest? Random strangers? Yes, I believe I will ask out a random woman I meet at a coffee shop, completely ignoring her boyfriend ordering a latte in the background. You get my point.

We laughed on the phone with one another at the ridiculousness of the moment. Here we were, in the middle of March, cold rain pouring all over us as we spoke on the phone, trying to find one another.

"I'm going clockwise," I said. "I think I'm near State Street."

"Stop, don't go anywhere," she replied, as I continued walking. "I'll find you."

Soon enough, we found one another. She was wrapped in a wool coat and sweater, and yet in spite of it I was impressed at her sensuality. It was winter in a Midwestern state, after all, and yet something about her made me forget it. I forgot the coat, the sweater, the boots, every part of her. I didn't imagine her naked, not then. But I imaged her lips against mine, and that was when I knew I had to have her.

You might wonder about the rest of the date. It went exactly as a normal date should, actually. We chatted about TV shows, grad school, the city were we had met, and so on. And yet, beneath it, all I could notice was her lips. I could nearly feel them against my own as I alluded to a re-run of Seinfeld, and I wanted to press them against mine as we talked of the conceited nature of those living in the city where we were currently drinking martinis. She had one, then two. And that is when I knew it. I needed her. I needed her before, no doubt, but I could have resisted had I deemed it necessary. In that moment, everything changed. I needed her, and nothing would change it.

When she let me walk her home, I was, incredibly, not surprised. When she invited me in, I was similarly, strangely, not surprised. It is not often that I, a confident fellow, no doubt, but certainly not a stud, am invited up to a woman's apartment for a cup of coffee on a first date. Those are the kinds of things that happen in the movies, right?

Wrong. She did invite me and I did whole heartedly accept. We rode the elevator to the eighth floor; still making slightly useless banter I tried to keep my eyes from starring at her lips, from wanting to taste her against me. I failed, and I think she saw, but I did not look away. It was too late for that.

Her apartment was nice, well kept. She shared it with two other roommates, neither of which were home at the time. I walked over to the window, and looked down upon the city we had so recently been a part of. It looked cold, bleak, and yet still alive, neon lights glittering against the rain as it fell downward. I felt, in an odd way, like I belonged.

"Would you like anything with your coffee?" she asked, breaking the silence. I honestly can't remember what I replied. All I knew what that I approached her then, and made up my mind that I would kiss her. Dating rules and niceties be damned, I wanted her, and I would not back down.

Am I usually so bold? No. But one must take what one needs, and I needed her in that moment. I remember it clearly, because we were both leaning against the kitchen counter. She was offering me something, I can't remember what, but I do remember what I did. I wrapped my arm around her head and pulled her to me, and I kissed her.

Our lips locked and our tongues intertwined, and in that moment I knew that I needed her even more than I had previously imagined. We kissed, passionately, without regard to those who might walk through the door at any moment, and I could taste her lust against my own.

I didn't just need her, I had to have her. Those of us who have had this sort of kiss understand the difference.

I could tell you about what followed. I could tell you about how I spun her around, our intertwining tongues becoming ever more passionate. I could tell you about how I reached underneath her jeans and touched her right there in the kitchen, about how she came against me as I rubbed against her.

I could tell you about how she led me to her room, how our needs overtook us as we pressed against one another, about how she begged me not to remove her boots, for they were the last things keeping her from making fucking me, and how I pulled them off of her just the same, our lips barely moving from their rightful place, against one another.

Yes, I could tell you all that, and what happened next, but that is a tale for another time. What matters, in the end, is the kiss that started it all, and the prelude, for that is in many ways just as important. Sensuality is not easily found, it must be created. And it can only be created by those who feel it, who see, underrated, and need one another in such a way that it is unavoidable. So, in that spirit, I encourage everyone to enjoy a kiss, and then another.