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The Saint Bernard Kiss Incident

I received a quick peck on the lips, which I didn’t expect.  After two dates, especially as an adult, you kind of know, instinctually whether or not the other person wants you, but I really had no idea how Simon felt.

I place a lot of emphasis on a kiss, or at least a series of kisses.  Making out can tell a lot about a guy that you wouldn’t normally find out.  If his kisses are languid and fluid in motion, and he seems to savor your mouth, chances are he’ll savor your body when the clothes finally come off.  If he’s a darter, i.e., when he pushes his tongue in and out of your mouth in rapid succession like a knife, or a dart, and his target is your uvula, well, he’s probably a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of guy in the sack.  Those are the ones I worry about, since they don’t seem to care about anything except getting themselves off.

After the time I’ve invested in Simon in endless conversations and two very long dates, I was curious.  Hell, I was more than curious.  This was make or break time.  “Wait!”  I breathed into the cold night air, and watched my words form into steam.  I wrapped my arms around his neck, and said a little prayer that this wouldn’t suck as his lips inched closer to mine.

And then all of my curiosity went out the window, and I knew I should have knelt at the statue of Mary and lit candles while I said my prayer.  Immediately, my chin was drenched in saliva as his tongue aimed like a marksman holds his bow in the quiver, and missed it’s target, over and over again.  He’s hitting the sides of my mouth, my chin, at one point, he even hits the tip of my nose as his mouth completely engulfs the lower half of my face.

It’s all I can do to hold on.  I try to coax him to go slower, to stop assulting me with his tongue, but he wasn’t budging.  Simon was moving to an internal rhythm I couldn’t break.

And with all of that, and the aftertaste of medicine at the back of my throat, like he just sucked down a Halls cough drop, I’m completely and utterly disgusted beyond reproach.

I pull away first because I have to, and I am afraid to open my eyes because he might still be kissing the air in between us.  I try to discretely wipe the lower half of my face against my thick winter gloves, but the air is so cold, the mess he’s made has frozen to my skin like a slobbery icicle.  God, I hate Buffalo winters almost as much as I hated that kiss.

“So yeah, ” I stumble over my words, and find that I have none. “I’ll see you Friday.”  I slip away quickly before he can say anything, and half-run, half-slide through the snowy parking lot to my car. I hope that my non-committal tone says what I can’t, that this kiss was on par with a root-canal without suction, but I know he doesn’t get it.

The ear to ear grin across his face as he waves goodbye to me is proof that he is not only oblivious, but absolutely pleased as punch that he got to first base with me.

I slam my car door and turn the key, hoping the heater will work before I get halfway home, and wonder how the hell I can get out of date number three in a few days.  Unfortunately though, that’s not my most pressing thought.

No, the thought is that I feel like I had just made out with a saint bernard, and I couldn’t get over how anyone, especially someone who is seven years older than my 28 years on this earth could think that the kiss was worthy of anything other than gagging.

It dawns on me as I hit the highway and my ipod is singing through the speakers of my rusty car that he probably doesn’t have much experience in that area, guys like him; shy, aloof guys who are too nice for their own good normally don’t, and I pity him.

Oh crap, I pity him.  This does not bode well for me.  True to form, I will probably see this Friday date to fruition, and kiss this guy again, reliving the wretchedness of this night, praying it can’t be that bad a second time, right?



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