It’s been a long, long time since I’ve kissed anyone (besides my daughters).  I remember the day. I even remember the hour and the circumstances. And there have been many times when I tell myself it’s not important. It’s just my lips touching someone else’s. No big deal.

You can’t really fool yourself though. You can’t con yourself into believing it. You can pretend, but deep down you know the truth. And you is I.

I haven’t kissed that many people in my life. Largely because of my chronic shyness (something I’ve tried to overcome) kissing always felt too intimate an act to share with strangers or semi-strangers. At parties I’d tell myself ‘just one more beer’ and I’ll make my move. And one would turn into two, then three and at some point opportunity would pass. In all honesty I don’t think I ever screwed up my courage to do what my hormones insisted.

No, that’s not true, I did once or twice.

God, I miss that sensation – eyes closed, lips on lips, inhaling breath, swirling tongues and gliding hands.  But more than that, I miss the underlying … feeling and emotion.

“Nothing like a woman who knows
to kiss the right thing at the right time,
then kisses the things she’s missed.
How had I ever settled for less?”