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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Wednesday, 3 February 2010

Missing kisses

I'm missing kisses at the moment. I don't get any. Not proper ones, I've got peck-on-the-cheek hello kisses, arty-farty air kisses and lips-firmly-shut kisses. I love kisses. I could live without oral sex sooner than I could live without kissing. Which is a shame, because currently I'm living without both.

doesn't kiss me. I have still to fathom out why and it makes our interactions strange and very removed. His only response thus far is that he hadn't really thought about it. But I'm thinking about it, certainly.
Lack of kisses has a definite effect on how I feel. Sometimes I feel like a client. Sometimes a prostitute. Sometimes I feel lonely. Sometimes I feel nothing at all and that's a problem, because after all, feeling is the point. Kisses are, of course, emotive and I can understand not kissing whilst "in scene" as it were, indeed, witholding kisses has always been an important part of feeling like an object. Objects don't get kissed. But people do and afterwards, or before, or just for kicks, I'm a person. Kisses are about caring, about desire and opening-up. Without them, the interaction can feel very superficial, mechanical and transactional. Which is fine, for what it is but it's limiting me. For all the powerful physical activity, something is sorely lacking and it's keeping me at arm's length, stopping me going as deeply as I could, keeping me on the coolly intellectual outside. Looking in.

A real kiss can be one of the most erotic things in the world. Whether historical rumour or no, I can well believe that Edo period geisha considered it an esoteric sexual art and it was a therefore a specialist and prized talent. I remember all the good kisses. A bad kiss is an instant no-no. All my partners must be fantastic kissers. My first kiss with The Photographer is burned into my synapses and I can recall with perfect clarity the sensation of it and the ensuing buzzing wave of pure desire that kept me on a wet-cunt high for days afterwards. I didn't know I wanted him the first time we spoke, the first time we saw each other or the first time we touched. But the first time we kissed I wanted him so badly I thought I would explode. The kiss is in fact my only exception to my hatred of begging that springs to mind - I've pleaded, whinged and promised the world in exchange for kisses. And will do so again, given half the chance.


Severin said...

I couldn't agree more. In fact i could have written that first paragraph myself, word for word.

And the thing is, you have just the most pretty face and kissable lips imaginable.

M said...

I can relate to this very much. Penetrative sex or fellatio doesn't compare to the intimacy of my first kiss.

When i think about it, I think that I'll never have a kiss like that again.

My first kiss was in the same night that I lost my virginity. I was trying to save myself, but she stole a kiss from me, and I felt that since she stole my first kiss, and since it was so wonderful; I was given to her.

My first love was almost motherly (note oedipal tendency) in her first kiss, she taught me, the inexperienced virgin; how to kiss a woman, how many different kinds of kisses there were, hard kisses, soft kisses, deep kisses, dirty kisses, innocent kisses.

She took away the innocence I had with her dominance, with her (as if-)incestuous intimacy, and there was no secret, no hidden truth, all was known and I was initiated through that first kiss.

I'll never have a first kiss again, I'm honoured to have had it so beautiful. I look forward to my next 'first kisses' with other people, but it will only be a shadow or implant of that first experience. It is the greatest intimacy for me. Perhaps that's why some refuse it

electronic doll said...

@ Severin - thank you. Much appreciated.

@ M - that was very beautiful, thank you for sharing.