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I Want to Be Kissed

November 20, 2012

I want to kiss someone. I want someone to hold my face in their hands. I want to run my hands through someone’s hair. I want to look in someone’s eyes and touch their face. I want to feel the excitement and mystery of kissing someone for the first time. I want to feel the hope and fear of beginning something with that first contact, the kiss.

The last person I kissed was Tennis Bashir. I haven’t finished that story yet. We made out in my car. He wasn’t a great kisser. Too short and staccato-like. He didn’t know how to take his time and kiss slowly and tenderly. Not that I minded. He was so beautiful and interesting. I wanted him. He denied me.

Mr. Mexico was a good kisser. Slow and sweet and varied. I remember what it was like when I kissed him the first time. We had just met. He asked me to dance. We danced for several songs. I liked the way he twirled me around. We talked on the porch. His accent was smooth. All their accents are smooth. I’m such a sucker for a man who learned English later in life. “I want to keep talking to you,” he said. “What are you suggesting?” I asked.

“What do you want?” he asked and looked from my eyes to my lips.

“I want to kiss you,” I said.

That was nice.

I want to do that again.

When I found myself facing single hood I was afraid of dating. I thought I was going to have a huge chip on my shoulder. Walls built up. I wasn’t secure in my looks. I didn’t know if men would find me attractive. I didn’t know how to behave. I wasn’t ready.

The opportunities came while I was still adjusting. But I found myself more than willing to give men a chance, or so I thought at first. Unlike a walled up cynical bitch, I was more like a confused teenager, not sure how to behave and giddy over the smallest morsels of attention. I remember getting a text from Tennis Bashir while I was at Pamplona’s. I read them with my barfly friends. I let them help me decipher their meaning and decide how to respond. I was silly. I was immature at 43. I still am.

The Four, as I have come to call them now, came at me in rapid succession. Once one was written off, the next one presented itself. It gave me a false sense that being single was going to be like that. This new life was going to include a continuing flow of interested parties giving me attention and asking me out. Pretty arrogant, I know.

Things have dried up. No one is on the horizon. No texts. No calls. No one showing up at the park when I’m walking just to find me and talk to me. And I want to kiss someone.

If I’m going to be honest with myself I’ll admit that’s all I want. I want to kiss someone. I don’t want a boyfriend. I don’t want a relationship. Too much trouble. Too much drama. I don’t want the tension, the compromise, the negotiation. I just want the nice stuff. The attention. The kissing. The sex. Dancing. Talking. Laughing. Dinner. Movies. I’m not ready for the rest. So, I should just be patient and keep working and changing and growing until I’m ready for him.

And if I’m going to be honest I would also admit that there have been offers, chances. In this town, I could go home with a different man every night if I wanted to. Last night a man I met at a party weeks ago was chattin’ me up, as the Brits say. “You’re very pretty. I meant to tell you,” he said. He didn’t even recognize me at first. Then there was the new guy, a diver in town for a job interview. He was pretty interested. I tried to teach him the waltz. I could’ve had him. That’s not what I want. That’s not who I am.

I’m waiting for the next one. He doesn’t have to be Mr. Right. In fact, I’m not ready for him. I’m still confused and figuring out how I want to be and who I am now. It would help if he was from a foreign country. I’ll take the height and looks and age of Syrian Doctor. I liked his confidence and his laugh. Add the spontaneity and smile of Tennis Bashir and his hair. I liked his hair. Let’s give him some of the artistic sensitivity and joie de vivre of Mr. Mexico. Or maybe he’ll be completely different. I’ll know him when I meet him. If he shows up soon, he won’t find me ready for a relationship but I won’t be the silly confused teenager either. He’ll find someone just ready to keep living and trying and learning.

He’ll find someone ready to be kissed.


From → Rantings

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