What a difference a month makes.
Only once during adulthood can I recall having a conversation with a friend about kissing. I can’t remember exactly how it started. We talked about first kisses and awkward encounters, mostly laughing and occasionally expressing sympathy because of what the other had to endure. Then he said something that actually bewildered me. “The worst thing is if you feel nothing at all.” I couldn’t imagine that.
I always felt something. Mostly it was for the regular reasons. I liked him. I wanted to kiss him. I felt excited or attracted to him. But sometimes it was either because I was so full of anticipation that getting to that point felt like triumph or wondering how I got myself into that situation. At least once, it was disgust. But never nothing-until this year.
The kiss was last month. Right now, I can’t even manage to remember his name, which goes against all my youthful cataloging tendencies. I’m much older now and don’t know what to make of the fact that it took me this long to feel what some people feel all the time, that it was just a kiss, that it didn’t mean anything. Here’s what happened.
I was at an afternoon birthday party for a relatively new friend. That means I didn’t know her friends, who were hosting the party, or their friends. This guy was part of the latter group. I remember that he was white British, with short hair. and a soul patch. I’m not sure how tall he was, though he must have been between 5’ 8” and 6’ for me not to notice. He drank a lot, but only seemed to be a little buzzed; he attributed both his habit and his state to his Englishness. After a while at the table near the house, he came around back to one with me and my mostly female group of friends. He said a few funny things and some annoying ones. The thing I remember approving of most is that he reported having painted the interior of the house a few days earlier. He was getting a little prickly about people leaning all over his work.
That passed and I continued to make the rounds. Because my car was temporarily incapacitated, my pregnant friend was driving me. I drank a little more than I would have otherwise. So some of it was fuzzy. As my friends and I were leaving, this huggy bunch of people started hugging us too. O.K., fine. I went to hug this British guy and he asked whether he could kiss me. Again he told me he was from England. His excuse/reason for the kiss was that if we were in England, it would seem really odd for him to not kiss women goodbye. Without responding to that, I kissed him. I hadn’t anticipated it, or wanted it. But I didn’t particularly mind it either. I think he started to put one arm around me. I noted that he hadn’t kissed any of the rest of my friends, that it went on a bit longer than a social kiss. He thanked me. I remember thinking that was odd. But I dismissed the thought, walked away and didn’t think about the incident again for a little while.
Then my friend’s comment came back to me. I tried to remember what I had felt, but couldn’t come up with much. I remember thinking that his lips were softer than I had anticipated. That must have been prompted by a feeling. But there were no butterflies. There was no arousal. I didn’t want it to go on longer. I didn’t care whether people were watching or not because it didn’t seem good enough to be private or bad enough to be embarrassing. I just didn’t mind it. Weird.
I’m nagged by this, looking for meaning. All suggestions appreciated.
I always felt something. Mostly it was for the regular reasons. I liked him. I wanted to kiss him. I felt excited or attracted to him. But sometimes it was either because I was so full of anticipation that getting to that point felt like triumph or wondering how I got myself into that situation. At least once, it was disgust. But never nothing-until this year.
The kiss was last month. Right now, I can’t even manage to remember his name, which goes against all my youthful cataloging tendencies. I’m much older now and don’t know what to make of the fact that it took me this long to feel what some people feel all the time, that it was just a kiss, that it didn’t mean anything. Here’s what happened.
I was at an afternoon birthday party for a relatively new friend. That means I didn’t know her friends, who were hosting the party, or their friends. This guy was part of the latter group. I remember that he was white British, with short hair. and a soul patch. I’m not sure how tall he was, though he must have been between 5’ 8” and 6’ for me not to notice. He drank a lot, but only seemed to be a little buzzed; he attributed both his habit and his state to his Englishness. After a while at the table near the house, he came around back to one with me and my mostly female group of friends. He said a few funny things and some annoying ones. The thing I remember approving of most is that he reported having painted the interior of the house a few days earlier. He was getting a little prickly about people leaning all over his work.
That passed and I continued to make the rounds. Because my car was temporarily incapacitated, my pregnant friend was driving me. I drank a little more than I would have otherwise. So some of it was fuzzy. As my friends and I were leaving, this huggy bunch of people started hugging us too. O.K., fine. I went to hug this British guy and he asked whether he could kiss me. Again he told me he was from England. His excuse/reason for the kiss was that if we were in England, it would seem really odd for him to not kiss women goodbye. Without responding to that, I kissed him. I hadn’t anticipated it, or wanted it. But I didn’t particularly mind it either. I think he started to put one arm around me. I noted that he hadn’t kissed any of the rest of my friends, that it went on a bit longer than a social kiss. He thanked me. I remember thinking that was odd. But I dismissed the thought, walked away and didn’t think about the incident again for a little while.
Then my friend’s comment came back to me. I tried to remember what I had felt, but couldn’t come up with much. I remember thinking that his lips were softer than I had anticipated. That must have been prompted by a feeling. But there were no butterflies. There was no arousal. I didn’t want it to go on longer. I didn’t care whether people were watching or not because it didn’t seem good enough to be private or bad enough to be embarrassing. I just didn’t mind it. Weird.
I’m nagged by this, looking for meaning. All suggestions appreciated.