Kissing School

Some names are pseudonyms

Part 1

I reached my 30s having had no romantic partnerships and zero sexual experience. At 33, I decided I wanted to kiss someone. But how did I get all the guys I'd been dating to know I was open to that? Like seriously, how did one communicate through the ether of casual banter at a bar somewhere in LA that I would totally kiss them?

Most people learn this in high school. 

I, most certainly, had not. 

For those who are unfamiliar with the rigidity of purity culture, the confinement of being home schooled in the south, and the complexities of being a member of a cult that was also your family, it is possible to become a fully grown adult and yet have certain parts of yourself that are walled off for safekeeping. 

In the area of sex and sexuality, mine was an untapped compartment with concrete walls, barbed wire, and snarling guard dogs. And a moat just for kicks. Off-limits, even to myself. 

But like with most things out of my past life of trauma, I decided I'd had enough of ignoring this part of my humanity. It was time for a good, old-fashioned make-out session. 

 I knew I needed to take matters into my own hands and determined the next time I was on a date with a bloke who was moderately attractive, I was not leaving that date until I kissed him. 

Enter Dennis: an artistically built man of Japanese descent. We met up at my favorite date place. As we sat in the same location at the bar where I had sat with two other dates that week, I started thinking I might need to look for a different date place because the bartenders were the same bartenders all three nights.

Hey, I was new to dating. I needed all the comfort and support of familiarity I could get. 

Especially for the night when I would have my first kiss. Dennis was the one, though he was fully unaware of my plan (of which I had none). 

I don’t remember a shred of our conversation. I was thinking about how to kiss this guy or get this guy to kiss me without being creepy. I’d been on enough dates to pick up the vibe and know if someone really did want to. Like, when Dennis walked me back to my car, he put his arm around my waist. It was a good sign. Especially because I was not inclined to pull away. 

I allowed his arm to stay around my waist all the way to my car. When we reached it, we talked about nonsensical things and I realized he was lingering. I fidgeted with my keys in my hands and the words of the Great Date Doctor, Hitch* came back to me. Fidgeting with keys meant the person wanted to kiss you, so I gave my keys another jangle for good measure. 

Then I kissed him. 

I was way too wrapped up in thoughts of, Oh my god, I did it! to analyze the kiss in the moment. 

We kissed again in the car. I was slightly more coherent and a little more intellectually engaged. I observed the kiss was wetter than I expected. Dennis gets the credit for this because I had YouTube tutorials and Google articles in my back pocket and I know I controlled my end of the saliva fest. 

After I dropped him off and pulled away, I screamed at the intersection. “I did it!” Elated with my success, I called my friend Patti. She congratulated me, and I continued to congratulate myself all the way home. 

I appreciated Dennis’s contribution to my sexual discovery journey so much that I ghosted him. He was also my last date for several months. 

But he was not my last date forever and definitely not my last kiss…

Part 2 

Upon first hearing that I had never kissed anyone, my friend Patti declared herself dedicated to my kissing education. One day over lunch, she said, “We need to get you kissed.” Even after I’d taken matters into my own hands with Dennis, I found myself only satisfied for a short period of time. 

So I’d kissed one guy. One random guy. Big deal. It could hardly count for experience. I needed more. 

Cue attending a massive club in downtown Los Angeles with several girl friends. We had drinks beforehand in the restaurant of a hotel and then crossed the street to another building that looked like a warehouse. We walked down a dark hallway until we reached double doors guarded by a bouncer. 

I felt like I was in a movie when the doors opened and we were allowed access to a revelry of dark strobe lighting and club music that was so loud you had to get directly in someone’s face if you wanted them to hear you. 

If kissing was my weakness, dancing was my superpower. I was very comfortable entering the fray and asking strangers to dance with me. Years earlier, I had another guide for this phase of my journey. My friend Laura loved to dance as much as I did and would dive into a crowd of men and surface with half a dozen dance partners. I remember asking her, “How do you know who to pick, and how do you know they want to dance with you?” 

“Oh, they want to dance with you,” she replied, with all the confidence of a southern socialite. 

It turned out that was the key: believing each guy already wanted to dance with you. Sure there were plenty of rejections and guys who left you hanging on the dance floor, but there were plenty more to take their place. It was also better not to stick with one partner as they started to get handsy if you danced with them for too long. 

The same principles applied in the club in LA. I had no trouble finding guys to dance with me, but how did I get them to kiss me?

As my current partner and I circled closer to where Patti was dancing with her partner, I got right next to her ear and made my complaint known. 

“You just gotta do it,” she said. 

Two dance partners later, and I still hadn’t made a move. 

I locked eyes with Patti through the smokey air of the club. She approached my partner and tilted upwards to whisper in his ear. I don’t know what she said, but it was probably something along the lines of, “Will you please kiss her you numbskull?” Whatever it was, the minute she pulled away, he was careening towards my face and pressing his lips to mine with the enthusiasm of someone who’d been waiting for permission all along. 

All it took was one kiss. Then the floodgates opened. It was like word spread through the reverberation of techno music that the girl over there in the gray dress was open for kissing. I didn’t have to do anything. They all started coming to me. One after the other. 

Of all the things I learned about myself that night, I know I’m not someone who loses their head in the euphoria of physical contact. With each guy I kissed, I assessed my emotions: did I like it when this guy grabbed my ass? When that one sucked on my lower lip? 

I did not like when one guy covered my whole mouth with his lips.

I definitely preferred having control. 

After several suck-face partners, I took a break and went to the bar. “Whiskey!” I shouted to the bartender over the boom of the bass. 

My friend Candice joined me as I downed the contents of my glass. “Candice, I think I’m a lesbian. That did nothing for me. Like, Nooooo-thing.” 

Candice confessed she hadn’t liked her first kiss with her now fiancé. It was so bad, he thought she might break up with him. Obviously, things improved because they were getting married. We established then and there that sometimes an emotional connection is required to make kissing enjoyable. 

I lingered at the edge of the dance floor, exhausted from my escapade. One of my previous partners approached and sat next to me. He put his arm around me. Then he placed his hand on the side of my face and started to draw mine towards his. 

I stopped him with a hand on his chest. “I’m done kissing for the night.” 

Shop closed, he went off to lick his wounds and find solace in the arms of another girl. 

The next morning, I noticed a mark on my bottom lip that looked like a bruise in the shape of a slug. When it didn’t go away after four days, I panicked. Could I really have gotten a disease from one night of decadence?

Gratefully, I had an appointment with the doctor the next week.

I asked her about the mark that still hadn't gone away. 

“Looks like a burst blood vessel. Did you bite your lip?" 

"Not that I know of.” An image of one guy I'd kissed popped into my head. 

"Kiss anyone?" 

"Yeah." 

"Oh, it's just a hickey on your lip." 

My first ever hickey. Could I have picked a better badge to honor to this monumental occasion?

No, I don't believe I could. 

*Referencing the film Hitch. Will Smith plays a date doctor who teaches men how to win over the girl of their dreams. 

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