Kiss and tell

Confessions of a serial kisser*
(*All names have been changed to protect the innocent)

By Charyn Pfeuffer

I am a kissing bandit. Nothing excites me more than exchanging that first kiss — the experience of absolute liberation, the thrill of letting go. Kissing, to put it simply, rocks my world. This ritual is what sexperts call “foreplay,” what anthropologists call “pre-copulatory activity,” and what Marvin Gaye calls “getting it on.” Usually, these orchestrated maneuvers are sweet and fleeting. Feelings are rarely hurt, and it’s a secret I know I’ll always share with the kissee.

My first French kiss took place at a seventh-grade dance with Peter Salt, the son of an English teacher. Frenching wasn’t as repulsive as I had feared, but it wasn’t too mind-blowing either. As our tongues clumsily intertwined, it dawned on me that you can’t truly enjoy something you don’t have the first clue how to do. This need to learn before I could enjoy led me to believe that there was nothing “natural” about intimacy. I later learned differently.

Fernando. I’ve always had a weak spot for foreign men. Fernando was thirtysomething, a smooth-talking Latino with dark, wavy hair (the kind you want to pull). He worked several cubicles down from me and we flirted madly in hushed tones via telephone. Late one workday, I asked the five magic words that would spark our on-again, off-again affair: “Are you always this good?” He had a live-in girlfriend, and although I suspected him to be a man of skewed morals, I desperately wanted to actualize our coquettish whispers. We met in the lobby and strolled across the street in sexually charged silence, and he pulled me into the alley. He wrapped his arms around my body and forcefully kissed my mouth. Finally, he grabbed my hand, lit a cigarette, walked back to the office, and said good night. Roll the credits and fade to black.

Kevin. My initial reaction to this pseudo-socialite was one of sheer repulsion. He was unabashedly cocky, an enigma who always “had something in the works” but rarely delivered, and a diehard fashionista to the point of concern. I accepted his birthday-dinner invitation purely as a one-on-one
opportunity to explore the inner workings of his Ivy-educated mind. At dinner, he blindsided me with unexpected charm. I’d made it about halfway home when my cell phone rang. It was a birthday booty call from Kevin, and I accepted the charges. Soon, we were making out. For a few ecstatic moments (okay, hours) I was able to see his self-absorption as an aphrodisiac.

Tyler. Tyler was nothing like the typical guy that made my kitty purr, but he possessed a refined charm and dimpled smile that captivated me. He was a well-bred, strait-laced lawyer, and I flirted shamelessly with him every chance I got. He seemed immune to my wiles and advances, until one fateful spring night. A group of us met for cocktails, but my busy evening social agenda soon took me and my new Prada party shoes elsewhere. I made a plan to return and resume the soirée, and I did just that. As the night grew late, everyone conveniently left one by one, leaving just us two. I don’t know how he gathered the moxie to ask me over to his place — he was clearly nervous — but he did. I sashayed into his fancy-schmancy, prime-real-estate condo, glowing with anticipation. After some fidgety small talk, we were horizontally fumbling at each other on his antique sofa. It was the sweetest of moments, almost high-schoolish in nature, and his kisses lived up to all my expectations.

Justin. Justin was the kind of guy you simply wanted to throw up against a wall and attack. So I did. The scene: a company-sponsored happy hour. One too many Pilsner Urquells and a long bathroom line got my libido in a rage. I’d always thought this fellow was a top-notch piece of booty, but alas, he held significant-other status. We ducked into the bathroom and started making out as only two drunk and horny people know how. It wasn’t until a co-worker started banging on the door that I realized this party needed to be moved elsewhere. Unfortunately for him, his impressively huge erection outlasted my interest, and I headed for the door and went home. Smiling.

Thomas. It was Valentine’s Day and my single male roommate and I were on a mission for action. I wanted to prowl the local university bar scene for a young, nubile thang, but he insisted that we go to a local Irish pub. I hussied up in a skin-tight fuchsia baby-tee, put on my MAC “Oh Baby” lip gloss, and made a small wager. The person who kissed or got kissed first won rock-star status for the week. I scanned the crowded room, which was packed with an overabundance of Lite-beer-guzzling frat boys. No thank you. And then, he brushed up against me. I turned to compliment the Oasis-wanna-be mod boy on his threads, and he informed me they were from Saks Fifth Avenue. I’d found my victim. He was 20 and foreign — both major turn-ons. We proceeded to kiss right then and there, amidst all the collegiate madness. On our way out of the bar, I winked at my roommate in silent victory.

Every kiss is a story, a memory that can be mentally revisited. And it’s just like my favorite extracurricular activity, shopping for shoes, in that it’s great fun to try on as many as possible before choosing the perfect pair. Kissing is not necessarily the most intimate act — the fact that chicks dig it more may be why it got that reputation. Perhaps the elusiveness of kissing adds to its allure. You can’t hold on to it and you usually can’t buy it.

Charyn Pfeuffer is a San Francisco–based freelance writer, serial kisser, and shameless flirt. She is the lifestyle editor for Philadelphia Style magazine and a contributor to several fashion, beauty, and relationship-themed Web sites.