*based on a true kiss
Have you ever experienced a French kiss? People describe it as something unforgettable, ethereal, something close to perfection. What makes a perfect kiss, French? Depth, timing, strength, amount of saliva, taste, or all of that together? Does a French kiss imply a French man or is it just a household name? Whatever it is, I bet I had it.
It’s 4 am on a Thursday in Hell’s Kitchen and I am in a usual desperate search of a one-night stand. After three mixed drinks, four brief flirts with five unknown folks, I’m walking out of the bar with the only one who caught my attention that night. He had such an uncommon name. It wasn’t the most masculine name (maybe that’s why I don’t remember it now), but who cares when his biceps were so tight that they made up for his name deficiency. I imagined myself being embraced by his warm, dark skinned muscles, caught like a mouse in a wild cat’s paws. Four new friends I’d just met at the bar were waiting for me outside to walk home together, but once they noticed me walking out with the Brazilian guy, they realized that their trip home would continue without me.
He and I made a couple steps out of the club and immediately stopped.
Awkward situation: both horny, neither could host the other.
The thought of being embraced by his arms immediately perished…well, almost immediately.
Hence, no apparent options for our alluring outcome: sex in public is prohibited, plus it’s completely unromantic. I am all about romanticism. Sex on the street can be romantic if you know the person (you’ve already had a couple dates) and you’re both aware that you are clean and safe. Plus, it’s hot when it happens spontaneously: after making out in a beautiful, empty garden in the middle of a crowded city such as New York. Alas, the place where we were was the opposite. The only enjoyable legal thing left was an adult mouth kiss. Any other lip route in public, up above or down below, is officially forbidden.
We took a couple of more steps away from the bar to avoid becoming the center of attention. Suddenly my Brazilian stopped me.
He grabbed my hips, pushed me to the nearest brick wall, pulled my face close to his, and conquered my mouth. His foreign juicy lips softly touched mine, our tongues turned into an infinite, rolling spiral. I felt weakness in my knees, in my arms, in my head. I was about to fall down, but our twisted tongue’s (and my desire to go on) kept me standing. I dissolved in the pleasure. I could not breathe, but at the same time, I was breathing so fast.
Then, he stopped. He backed off. He said that he had to go. And I was ready to let him go.
No! Lie! I was not.
Apparently…neither was he.
He grabbed me again and I grabbed back — to make sure he wouldn’t go anywhere! And again, our tongues were dancing. It seemed like a Brazilian dance, a samba perhaps, but a mellow version. I felt disarmed. I wanted it to last forever, but then he stopped again. He always took the initiative to pause first. (I never would have done that. It was too good to stop!)
This time I pulled him close to me and we had our final shot.
He wiped off his lips. I wiped off mine. We wished each other good night.
He went to the West. I went to the East.
After a few steps, I looked back at him walking the other way. I wanted him to do the same — to look at me — maybe even chase me, if only with his gaze. That would give some hope for chapter two and turn the ending of our story into a prologue.
But he did not turn his head.
He walked away proud, as a man who could get anyone he wants with his invincible weapon: pillow lips.
I was not upset.
I realized it was just a one-night stand.
Or better yet — a one-night kiss.