The Kiss

I’m sitting in a room filled with a dozen people having a dozen different conversations. No one is really listening to anyone else, just waiting for his or her own chance to talk. I’m engulfed in a large over-stuffed recliner, my legs crossed Indian-style, a bottle of Miller Lite nestled in my crotch. It’s warm because I detest the taste of beer so I’ve been nursing it for an hour. Then HE comes, stands tall over me, asks if he can sit with me because there are only seats left on the floor. There’s more than enough room in the recliner and I lift my beer, unfold my legs and make room for him. His leg is pressed up against mine, the heat from his khaki-clad thigh seeping through and heating my already warm jean clad leg. The room’s temperature suddenly rises and I bring the bottle to my lips, practically drain the warm flat contents. My face scrunches up from the bitter taste and I lean over to place the bottle on the wooden coffee table in front of me. I have to struggle to make room. The table is littered with over-flowing ashtrays, empty cans of Budweiser, bottles of Miller Lite, generic Cola, a half-empty fifth of Port Royal, a two-liter of Hawaiian Punch, a half gallon of Parrot Bay, and various blue plastic cups, many empty, some full.

I lean back in the recliner and his arm is behind me, kind of curves around my shoulder like it’s supposed to be there. We’re “just friends” so I try to disregard the feelings that run through my body as a result of such an innocent gesture. He has one of those blue cups in his hand full of red punch and a burning cigarette in-between his fingers. I tell him that it’s dangerous for his cigarette to be so close to his cup and take the cancer stick from him, placing it between my lips. I take in a long drag, blow the smoke out slowly. He chuckles, says that I suck on that stick like there’s something else inside of it instead of just sweet, sweet nicotine. I don’t typically smoke and that sweet, sweet nicotine, as he so succinctly put it, flows straight to my head, makes me slightly dizzy and light-headed. I take another drag, this one much shorter, before placing the filtered end back between his lips.

That’s my first mistake. One of my fingers accidentally brushes against his upper lip as I return the cigarette to him. His lips are full and large, some may say too wide for his face, but I find them soft and perfect.

I want him to kiss me.

He starts to talk, those perfect lips parting, sometimes wide enough for me to see the pinkness of his tongue dancing about inside his mouth. I pretend to listen but his words are lost on me. All I can think of is how our first kiss should be. That it should be one of those forceful and deeply passionate kisses like in the old movies.

I would be his Scarlette O’Hara, he, my Rhett Butler. He would stand before me, towering above my petite frame, his hands placed on my small hips. Then, gently but firmly, he’d bring me to him, the curves of my body pressed tightly against the hard rigid lines of his. My head would snap back and my arms would snake between us, as I’ll pretend to protest. Then his head would slowly descend unto mine, giving me more than enough time to pull back if I wanted, but we’ll both know better, and both of our eyes would close, and then it would happen. He would kiss me…

He’s now waiting for an answer from me for a question that I never heard. I’m saved from the embarrassment of confessing that I haven’t been listening by a loud uproar from a group on the couch. There’s a dispute over some card game, either Asshole or Drunk-Driver or Circle of Death. A boy swears loudly, stands, opens a can of beer, tips his head back and brings the can to his lips. The room begins to chant, “Chug, chug, chug, chug!” as the cold beer flows down his throat in rapid waves, some escaping and running down the corners of his mouth. The can now empty, he lets out a Conan-like yell, crumples the can in his hands and throws it forcefully on the coffee table before collapsing back onto the sofa.

Anxious to get the taste of nicotine and warm beer from my mouth, I take the blue cup from him and bring it to my lips. I am strangely disappointed when he says that I can have the rest and rises to fix himself another drink. I feel that I’ve been intrusive and somehow misinterpreted our relationship if he can’t even share a simple cup of rum and punch with me. The juice slides down my throat as smooth as a red burning molasses. I suddenly don’t want it anymore. This time he fills his blue cup with the Port and adds just a drop of the generic cola. He sits back with me, though, lights another cigarette and takes a big sip from his blue cup. He nods his head, makes some comment about that being a real man’s drink and asks me to try it. I tell him that I’m not a man but that I’ll try it anyway. I find the spot where he sipped, because if I can’t kiss him for real, then that is the next best thing, and bring the cup to my lips to hide my smile. I know now that he gave me the cup of red punch not because I’d taken it without asking, but because he wanted something much stronger. I blanche at the taste of the Port and coke, cough, hand it back to him and say that I’ll stick with the much saner mixture of Parrot Bay and punch.

He starts talking again and I turn to face him, and suddenly I’m deaf. I see his lips move, I’m certain words are coming out, words that are meant for me, but all I can hear is the slight parting of his pink lips, I can feel the gentle air of his words reach out and caress my face. I want him to kiss me. I want the kiss to be light and teasing and seductive.

We’ll turn to face each other and the room and everything and everyone around us will fade away and dissolve until there was nothing left but us. We’re sitting face-to-face, soft grass beneath our butts, a drooping weeping willow blocking the blazing sun from our faces. Our eyes will lock, his fingers curving beneath my chin, gently bringing my face toward his. Nose to nose we touch, our eyes close in sync, and we both breathe in as if we’ve both just lost our breath. The seconds will seem to drag on for hours as ever so slowly our lips finally make that connection and come together…

He’s telling some story and I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be funny or sad or indifferent, so I’m rude, interrupt him in the middle and uncharacteristically ask for a cigarette. He doesn’t comment on my unusual request or on the fact that I’ve interrupted him, just reaches into his pocket and hands me the pack of Marlboros. It’s kind of heavy with only a few cigarettes left, but a large silver lighter takes up most of the space. I play with the lighter awhile before finally lighting my cigarette. He’s long since put his last one out and asks me to light one for him. I make that same mistake again and put it between his lips instead of just giving it to him like a good little girl. I don’t brush his lips this time and wish that I had.

It’s late in the night, somewhere between today and tomorrow and the room slowly begins to disperse. The male to female ratio is off, testosterone dominating the walls, and those who are fortunate enough to pair off do so. Suddenly it’s only him and me in the recliner and three boys on the other side of the room playing a quick-paced game of Fuck Your Neighbor. I try to stifle a yawn but both of my hands are occupied, one with a cigarette, the other with my cup of punch. He asks if I’m tired and suddenly I am but don’t want to be. I lie and say no as I yawn again. He laughs, checks the time, asks if I’m going to try to walk home alone in the snow. I shrug my shoulders and bring the punch to my lips, drinking more than I should more quickly than I should.

He’s a talker, especially under the influence of his cup of a lot of rum and a little bit of cola and yawns. We both laugh when he makes a joke about how yawning is contagious. My laugh is empty, though, because his yawning has once again brought attention to his perfect lips and once again I’m wishing that he would kiss me.

This time we’re standing in the middle of the room. We’re not in some Hollywood movie, we’re not sitting in some unknown meadow under a weeping willow, and it’s just us, together and alone. He reaches out to take my hand and our fingers interlock. He brings my arm around, places it around his neck, slowly draws me closer to him until our bodies nearly touch. His head tips slightly to the right and those perfect lips part just enough and he leans towards me. The kiss is light and gentle at first, as if he’s asking if this is all right, and then the passion takes over him. His hands go around my waist, he draws me in closer, the kiss much more forcefully, much deeper. His tongue slips out, traces the outer ridges of my lips, beckoning my tongue to join his in this sensual oral dance…and I’m only more than happy to oblige.

And that’s it. That’s the kiss I want. That is the kiss I like the best.

We finish our cigarettes and he stands suddenly and asks if I’d like to crash in his room because the snow is now falling awfully hard and none of the furniture in this room is room is comfortable. I accept, my cool and relaxed tone belying the rush of excitement that suddenly flies through my body. He leads the way and we bid goodnight to the group, but they hardly notice us as I follow him up the creaky wooden stairs, past the torn posters and painted fraternity symbols chipping off of the wall.

His room is surprisingly large, neat and messy at the same time. His bed isn’t a bed at all, but two queen-sized mattresses placed on top of each other in a far corner of the room. The sheets and homemade quilt are messy but pulled up in a half-assed attempt to make the bed. An acoustic guitar leans up against his computer desk, the blue and white Mac atop on, softly playing an old Eric Clapton tune about someone being wonderful tonight. To the right of the computer is a long aquarium, thought it’s not filled with water and fish, but of a baby albino boa constrictor that’s curled in a corner lost in sleep. I tap on the glass to try to get the snake’s attention but it pays no mind to me. Behind me I hear the rustling of clothes and I freeze as I realize that he is changing into sleepwear. He’s talking, hasn’t stopped talking in fact, since we’ve stepped into the room. He asks if I’d like a t-shirt and some shorts to sleep in. I don’t turn around but nod and say sure, all the while pretending to be fixated on the yellow and white snake trapped behind the glass.

Once I’m sure that he’s finished changing I turn around and accept the black and white Raiders jersey and red shorts emblazoned with our college logo. He says that he’s got to drain his snake and disappears off to the bathroom while I change my clothes. I do it as quickly as I can, lest he find me in an embarrassing state of undress, fold my things neatly, place them on the desk chair rather than the wrinkled heap on the floor like he’s done.

He comes back in the room, asks if it’s warm enough or does he need to get another blanket. I shake my head, say that the room feels fine. He closes the door, locks it, turns back to me. He’s surprisingly quiet for a minute and that makes me a bit nervous. I fake a yawn, pretend to stretch, move towards the mattress on the floor, but he stops me with his words. He asks if he can do something that he’s wanted to do all night. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just moves towards me, lifts his hand to my brow, brushes my hair behind my ear. He’s close enough that I can smell the winterfresh mouthwash on his lips. He drops his hand to his side but he doesn’t step out of my personal space. I force myself to look away from his lips before any more fantasies begin to fly through my head and clear my throat, ask if that’s all he’s wanted to do all night.

He shakes his head and my breath stops. I forget to breathe and I get dizzy. I don’t know if I should blame that on the lack of oxygen or of my over-consumption of alcohol. I don’t know what to do so I exhale, inhale, exhale again, bring the oxygen back to my brain, bite the inside of my lip to make sure that I’m not dreaming, that this is actually happening and that his hand is really reaching out for mine.

And then it happens. The sweet coconut and sugar that coats my mouth finally mixes with the minty-ness of his mouth. It’s finally happened.

He’s kissed me.

And it’s better than any fantasy.

It’s the one that I like the best.