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I crave touch. And my very favorite touch is the touch of lips. There's something thrillingly delightful about lips. Specifically, kissing. I love to kiss. When the opportunity is afforded me, I kiss frequently. Playfully, tenderly, passionately, sweetly, interspersing nuzzles, whispers, nibbles, licks and giggles. Kissing is amazing and beautiful and intimate.

Compared to my friends at the time, I was a late bloomer when it came to kissing. I was 13 and despite several illicit games of Truth or Dare and Spin the Bottle, I'd somehow managed to avoid anything more than kisses on cheeks, neck nuzzles and booty rubs. I had a boyfriend at the time. A boy two years my senior who made every effort to get us time and space alone. I, on the other hand, endeavored to do the same but in... less obvious ways. I spent a large amount of time at church and, at the time, he and I didn't attend the same school. He'd started showing up at my church with his boys (didn't we all travel in packs) and, eventually, our groups melded into a group of couplings. Youth retreats and rallies and camping were events that brought on renewed excitement when you knew you could sit next to your boo and canoodle during travel to and fro. It was at one such event that my first kiss finally happened!

We were at an event late. Meals had been eaten. Laughs had been had. I was basking in the glow of teen happiness when I suddenly had an urgent need for my lip balm. It was pineapple-mango scented and flavored and I kept having to reapply it because I was constantly licking it off my lips. Somehow, I'd left this new wonder in the van and I wandered to the parking lot to retrieve it. Walking back to the building, with my lips slathered in deliciousness, I encountered my boyfriend. The sun had just dipped below the horizon and the lights in the parking lot were beginning to flicker on. He pulled me into a hug and I eagerly leaned into him. I'm not sure what compelled me to look up into his face. Just like that, with the tilt of my head and the briefest inhale, I'd embarked on my first kiss. It was like many of life's other firsts, exciting, terrifying, full of fumbles, but triumphant. I remember pulling back and smacking my lips together. He tasted of Winterfresh gum and now I did, too. I wondered if he was tasting pineapple-mango. He looked at me expectantly and it occurred to me that I had no  clue what was supposed to happen after a kiss in real life. My TV/movie research and practice had not prepared me for what was supposed to happen after the kiss. I wracked my brain and kept coming up empty.

So.

I thanked him. And because he was barely more well-versed in life as I was, he said, "You're welcome."

And that is the story of my first delicious kiss. My technique has improved since that evening. I rarely use flavored lip products and I don't know when I last tasted Winterfresh. But when I think of that gum and when I think of flavored lip balm, I always fondly remember that first kiss.

Unsaid Words

I sat quietly, sitting in the middle of a scene from which I was inadvertently excluded. My mother was telling a joke that she clearly found hilarious, as she dissolved into peals of laughter before she'd arrived at the punch line. I watched my brothers roll their eyes in amusement and knew that if I could see myself an indulgent smile would be playing over my lips. I looked at my mother, still mid-laugh but pretending to be grumpy that none of us were laughing as uproariously as she was. Clearly, our senses of humor weren't sophisticated enough for her caliber of joke. I had something I needed to tell her. And I worried that after we talked, she would never look like this again. Happy. No, more than happy---joyous. An abiding joy that resided within her, regardless of what else she went through.

My mother has encouraged me to do things that would create happy memories. While we were growing up she would spend hours regaling us with stories from her childhood and stories her parents had told her from their childhoods. As a young girl, I worried that I wouldn't live my life well enough to regale my future progeny with such enthralling stories. I still worry about that. But these memories are shocking in their unpleasantness. I'm not sure why it's so important to me to talk with my mother about these things.

I've always felt that my mother and I were at odds. She loved me, of that I had no doubt. However, it was clear that our personalities were at opposite ends of the spectrum. Our rough patch began when I was 16 and it endured until I was 24. I was determined to assert my personality but after a lifetime of never seeing this sassy, defiant, cold-eyed side of me, my mother felt certain that what she was seeing wasn't really me.

It was. I'd just finally found my voice. But the voice I'd found was still unable to tell my mother the things I should have told her when I was 7, 8, and 9 years old. I couldn't speak the things that had plagued me at 15 and 19. The years went on and I found myself choking over all the unsaid words. Every conversation was a minefield and I was constantly and obviously tense. Who am I to dash her knowledge of me to the ground? To dig up my long-buried hurts and display them before her like a dog with a favorite bone? What right do I have?

Two teenage boys, the sons of family friends who we hadn't seen in over 15 years. Their names were as ashes, dusted out of my mind as though a great wind had swept them away. Separate occasions, years apart, but somehow mirroring one another in the terror, the confusion, the guilt that welled up within me. I locked it all away for years, tucking it neatly into a chest that was welded shut. I had no need to revisit. Ever.

It happened again. Someone I trusted, someone who'd been a safe harbor. We were in what I thought was a safe space. There, he pressed his advantage. The chest cracked, the contents seeped out. They'd been stewing, rotting for years. An ingredient added...

I was lost. I was to blame. I had to be. Something was wrong with me. 
The last time it happened I determined it would be the last. And it was. Unlike any time before, this man intended to press to completion. And he took. The last time it happened I determined it would be the last. And it was. Any other encounter would be on my terms and my terms only.

I looked at my mother with laughter in her eyes, telling a story she'd told us dozens of times and singing a song she'd learned as a child. I searched her face, searing everything about her in my memory. Because if I uncorked this bottle, spilled out my hurts, sipped the bitter elixir and faced the aftereffects... this would be the last time I saw her this way.

He found her at her worst.
Her hard exterior cracked, exposing her tender innards. She trembled when he came near and hesitated when he smiled. Her past acceptance of gentleness and kindness had caused her to lay her soul bare. It was certainly her soul that suffered the most when that gentleness and kindness slipped away to the place where sweet feelings go to die.
This approach was very different but smacked of more of the same. With shadowed memories crowding her mind, she changed her tact. She felt certain this could be different. This would be different.
After all, she was a changed SHE. And HE was certainly a different HE.
He found her at her worst and she strove to be her best. Now, she knew it was different. She did more for herself while with him. She wanted more for him. She dreamed bigger dreams, reached for higher peaks. In a twinkle of happiness, a flash of laughter, a burst of embraces, it was over.
He found her at her worst. And when he was done with her, he put her back where he'd found her.

And He Knew

The rain pelted the windows as the parking lot lights seemed to glare between the blinds. The wind screeched past, proclaiming the chill it would leave to greet them the next morning. He rolled onto his side and reached out in a gesture that had somehow become automatic. Every time he touched her, he still wondered how her skin was so soft. He’d showered with her; even used the same products, but she her skin was impossibly soft to the touch. He trailed his hand down her spine, testing to see if she was awake. He almost felt her smile in the dark as she rolled toward him. “Yes,” she queried. The single word dripped with the strangest combination of mirth and sensuality. She scooted closer to him bringing the heat that she literally seemed to radiate from her body. He wondered how someone who was always shivering from cold managed to give off so much heat. He kissed her forehead and caressed her cheek, enjoying the freedom to touch her at will. She lay still, curled in his arms as he ran his hand smoothly down the line of her body. Following her arm to her hip to her thigh, he paused to tickle the sensitive spot behind her knee. He loved to feel her squirm next to him and continued to tease her in these little ways. She giggled, releasing a short burst of minty breath onto him. He knew that she would never know much how he loved these moments with her. Her happiness was nearly tangible. And it warmed his heart in an inexplicable way. He smiled as he listened to her fuss about being unable to doze off, and moments later, he listened to her breathing become even as sleep claimed her. She never went willingly, but she always went quickly. He leaned away to look down at her sleeping face and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
And he knew it .  He loved her.

Sickening

My skin tingled as it cooled. He stood beside my bed, his shadow falling across my midsection as he shrugged into the shirt I’d hastily snatched from his body hours ago. “This isn’t working out,” he said. “This?” “Yeah,” he replied, “this. Us. We. It’s not working for me anymore.” I grunted, choosing not to speak than to spew the acidic words I was feeling. I sat up, pulling the sheet to cover my bare breasts. Some part of me would not allow me to be dismissed from his life while lying naked in the afterglow he’d created. I felt the warmth draining out of me. I climbed out of the bed, both irate and unsure of what to do now that I stood before him. Our juices trickled down my thighs, causing the sheet to stick to the intimate crevices he’d so ardently caressed moments before. A thrill ran down my spine, my attraction to him nearly overpowering my growing disgust. “What is it that suddenly isn’t working, Brian?” His gaze went blank, as it always did when he was confronted. His face was absolutely still; he didn’t attempt to look like he was thinking of an answer. He just shook his head and turned away. I felt something inside me deflate. Suddenly I felt wretched and cheap. I imagined this moment painted. A woman, clutching a sheet to her breasts, standing in the shadow of a man who no longer wanted her. Her face dejected as he gave her his back. Her shoulders trembling in an effort not to slump. The woman I imagined was me, and she was sickening. 

Things He Love(d)

He loved her lips. Truly, the credit was due to her mouth, although her lips were nothing to discount. He was fascinated by the constant motion. He would see her, sitting or standing utterly still and there it would be. A glimmer of action on her face. It made him smile just to think of it. He wondered if she knew she was doing it. No, he decided, definitely not.

He’d been so immersed in watching her mouth that he had only half-heard what she was saying. He watched as she paused and applied gloss to her lips. He laughed, poking gentle fun at her to cover his affection. “Now why would you need to make your lips stand out more?” He knew he certainly didn’t need any more excuses to look at them. She smirked, the corner of her mouth adding a curious twitch that intrigued him. “Boy, please,” she laughed, “you can look away if you have a problem with it.” It was as if she was reading his mind.

He eyed the beauty mark on her upper lip and fought the urge to run the pad of his thumb across it. Her silence marked the wait for a question he’d never heard. She shook her head, amused at his distractedness tonight. He was usually an avid listener, a pretend-reluctant participant in their roundabout conversations. He focused himself, really listened to what she was saying. He loved this game. He’d charm laughs out of her, waiting for his name, mingled with mirth roll from her tongue. Her eyes would sparkle in such a way that he had not recalled ever seeing before, piquing his curiosity to learn how deep the sparkle went.

Battle

I've been fighting a war I can't win. Fighting a memory of something that used to be, oh, so sweet.
To call this memory precious now would be a lie, as it only plagues me. It drags me down into the depths of confusion and despair.
My focus is on getting angry, staying angry, hoping that my anger will burn all remnants of my thoughts, feelings, memories.
So focused am I, that I'm suddenly unfocused. Blurred hindsight, bleary insight, no foresight.
What am I really fighting for?

"I will spend the rest of my life mourning someone who isn't dead. I will die considering my life unfulfilled due to a single moment."

Untitled

Her position was a strange one. When she thought about it, it was where she'd always been. She was popular, but somehow not. When she accepted an invitation others seemed glad to see her. But when she declined, she was not missed. It had always been that way. Co-workers, friends, even family. She'd resigned herself to this position, telling herself that it didn't matter. But in what had started as the smallest way, it mattered. And finally, it had come to matter very much.
But something paralyzed her. She found it unthinkable to ask how she'd come to this position. Frankly, she didn't even know how to formulate the question, let alone who to ask.
She felt an inexplicable emptiness and frequently took little social breaks, isolating as much as possible without causing alarm. Her closest friends began recognizing the breaks, welcoming her back with, "Been on intermission?" She was grateful for their acknowledgement, even if they didn't quite understand.