by Sandi Amorello

I was so nervous about kissing someone again.  Never mind that I had approximately 28 years of kissing experience under my belt.  Never mind that I could have received a gold medal for my kissing abilities, had it been an Olympic event.  The truth was, the more time went by, the more insecure I became.  I knew in my heart that it was like riding a bike…it all would come back to me once I did it.  But, the thought of doing it became more and more distressing as the days, weeks and months ticked by.

At one point, I knew the dreaded (but also much anticipated) first kiss was imminent.  I find it hard to admit to this, being a 40-something year old woman and not a 14 year old…but at one point, I actually practiced kissing.  Yes…I practiced on oranges and peaches and even the fleshy part on the side of my hand…below my thumb.  I thought of drawing a pair of lips in Sharpie marker to make it seem more real, but I was afraid the cashier at the local wine shop might notice it the next time I went in.

The first kiss went surprisingly well.  Luckily, he was a great kisser.  Not every man is, however.  Now…I am a great kisser.  And I’m sorry, but it’s not a subjective thing. You either ARE…or you AREN’T.  There is no in between.

Drew was a wonderful kisser.  We could kiss for hours on end. And when he kissed me, my knees went weak and my head started spinning.  I was transported into another dimension. That is what kissing is supposed to be all about.  You are supposed to melt.  Into a puddle.  Even after twenty years.  Yes…okay…so my expectations are a bit high.  That’s what happens when you’re used to gold medal kissing.  I am not settling for any bronze medalists at this point in my life.  And I certainly don’t want any semi-finalists…or guys who couldn’t even make the team.

Now, I have dated quite a bit in the meantime.   I have done my share of investigative kissing….and let me tell you, there are men who apparently have never been set straight.  How could a man have been married for 8 or 10 or 13 years…and not know how to kiss a woman properly? I pondered this for a long time…after encountering a few disappointing kissers, and I have come to the conclusion that their wives didn’t know how to kiss, either.  Or their wives never kissed a good kisser when they learned how to kiss.  I mean, it obviously all hinges upon the quality of the kissing with the first person you kiss.  If he or she is good…then you learn the correct way.  If he or she is mediocre, or heaven forbid, bad…then you go through life disappointing everyone.

I have dealt with wet and slobbery kissers, dry kissers, and kissers whose tongues appear to not in any way be connected to the control center of their brain.   I kissed a man whose tense little tongue darted nervously in and out of my mouth.  Like some sort of lizard tongue…or a frog, when it is trying to catch a fly.  In out in out.  It was very annoying…and decidedly not sensual.  I felt as if I were being attacked by some little slippery pimento from inside of a stuffed cocktail olive.  It was not difficult to jump to the conclusion that his lovemaking would be an expanded version of this same guerilla warfare technique…and I decided it would be less painful to end it at the kissing stage, rather than endure the perils of what might transpire in bed some day, down the road.  In out in out in out in out in out in out and…snore.

I have also kissed men whose tongues were neither darting nor prodding …but, worse still…were nowhere to be found.  It was never where it was supposed to be.  The tongue should always be right there…in position…ready for engagement.  I kissed one man whose tongue was never around.  Where had it disappeared to, I thought?  Then there is the opposite problem, wherein the man’s tongue can easily be located…and it is somewhere down around your tonsils.

Kissing is not something you can teach someone very easily after the age of 30.  I mean, you might think you have fixed the problem…he may seem to be reformed…but a few hours or days later…his old, bad habits will resurface.  He will slobber again.  Or worse.  Of course, once I got that first kiss over with, it was like someone had reignited my pilot light.  I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing.

I went on a date after a couple of months on that dot com thing with a man who I wasn’t too sure about.  I didn’t know how attracted I really was to him.  We had a lovely dinner…. but I just kept staring across the table at him thinking, “Do I want to kiss him??”  I am certain he was talking about all manner of fascinating things…but as I looked across the table and pretended to be listening…all I was thinking about was how much time I had left until I would come face to face with the kissing decision.  Then, as he walked me back to his car, I started to get a bit nervous.  He was going to give me a ride back to my car, because it was raining, and I had apparently misplaced my own vehicle in a city I wasn’t familiar with.  As we climbed into our respective seats, I thanked him and thought about whether I should,  A) give him a kiss on the cheek, or B) give him a quick peck on the lips. These were the only two options I was considering.  I remember thinking that if I got into my own car and got on the road home quickly, it would still be early enough to make a call to Dr. Tall, Dark and Naughty to see if he had forgiven me for running off with his firewood.   (*that story will be in the next book, for those of you whose interest is piqued.)

So…that was what was running through my brain in that split second. The next thing I remember, it was two hours later and my lips were numb.  I had given him one little kiss…and suddenly…boom…there I was, on a cold, rainy night in November, making out in a little German sports car, under a streetlight in downtown Providence.  I was like a woman possessed.  Although he was not my dream date…he was a great kisser…and every time I opened my eyes, he looked more and more attractive.  I recall hearing the familiar ring of my cell phone coming from my purse as my sister-in-law called in vain, probably wondering where I was at 1 AM… and whether my date had abducted me.

I ignored the calls.  I was like a cocaine addict who just needed one more line.  I couldn’t stop.  Who cared if she had to go to work at 8 AM…I was being kissed by someone who knew how to kiss…finally!…and I couldn’t stop.  I eventually listened to my voicemail messages and reluctantly called back to say I was alive, and began the hour-long drive home.  My lips were pleasantly numb and my head was spinning…and my poor, benevolent sister-in-law probably wanted to put me in “bad mommy jail”…but I didn’t care.  The crime was worth the punishment.

I felt alive again.

© 2007 Sandi Amorello/Silver Crayon Studios, Inc.  All rights reserved.
The Irreverent Widow, Silver Crayon Studios and the SC Studios mark are all trademarks of Silver Crayon Studios, Inc.