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on kissing girls
I didn't know it was a girl at first. Just a palm pressing
into the small of my back, and a mouth whispering a kiss into my shoulder blade.
I was making that transition from 'Wasted' to 'Very Wasted'. I
turned around and there she was, sleepy eyes and a fucked-up hairdo, a plump and
serious hipster with a murderous smile. We made eye contact like crazy. I grinned.
Her hand was helicoptering on my back; it felt like it left a mouse trail of arrows
where ever it went. Like it was crawling with tiny insects under the skin! My
back felt rude!
My right hand floated up and laced itself into her fucked-up hair,
slipping through like a waterfall. My hand was buried up to the wrist in silkiness.
Our foreheads touched. I knew The Kiss was coming: I just didn't know exactly
when it would be. And then when I thought that perhaps I was, y'know, misinterpreting
the signs, suddenly we were in The Kiss. There seemed to be nothing in between
Kiss and Not-Kiss. No heads bending or lips extending and lids lowering or any
other of that Babs Cartland crap.
The Kiss settled over us like a brittle black dome and we
moved around inside it.
She was kissing hard and quick and I kept inhaling her hair.
I thought I would drown in softness, like slipping into a lake of face powder.
Her fingers were rummaging on my back and squirreling towards the tide-edges of
my garment. They circled; then patted and hit; then crept up like someone playing
scales on the piano. And then the song ended and she dropped her hands to the
waistband of my jeans and rested them there for a second and pulled her mouth
away.
Then she was gone.
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