Interchangeable parts
A couple winters ago I was on a notdate (you know, that social expedition that no one has defined as a date, but it’s pretty clear that at least one of you wouldn’t mind it going in that general direction) with a guy whom, I was certain by the end, I definitely wanted to not date. He wasn’t good-looking (in a general consensus sense), but, though I wasn’t blind to that, it also didn’t particularly bother me. He also seemed to have a lot of mental health issues. It happens. The real problem was, the more we hung out together, the more a striking resemblance developed in his features and expressions to a chick I often, to this day, have trouble standing. There’s no harm in her, and I’m disposed to be civil toward her because she’s married to a friend, but hers isn’t the face I want to see poised on the prow of a guy who wants to do me. It surprised me how deeply and utterly this resemblance bothered me.
Our conversation quality was fair; I usually have no trouble talking at length to anyone who can even pretend to comprehend English, and I think that put him at ease. I felt that we could easily be friends as long as a) he didn’t mind that idea and b) things didn’t get tragically awkward. The face thing that would murder my peace in a paramour I could easily deal with in a platonic way.
After a movie and some wandering while talking, we ended up in my car in the mall parking lot. I was going to drive him to his car since I have V.I.P. cripple parking. Snow drifts rose up where swaths of parking spaces should’ve been, and it was snowing gently, and he kissed me.
And it was awful.
I try to be accommodating, so I went with it, although at the beginning my involvement was no better than half-hearted (and actually a good deal less). There was absolutely no firmness or pressure in his lips or tongue, no apparent rhyme or reason to what those parts were doing, and his breath lingered on the unfortunate side of middling. Every second of horrible making out that ensued made me more and more miserable, and less and less sure of how to stop it without hurting his feelings. Just then, Untrust Us by Crystal Castles started playing, and it struck me all of a sudden what a terrible waste all this was. The veil of falling snow, the dark sky against the white hills, the warmth of my car’s heater in that ocean of cold, and that lovely, delicate song all conspired to create such an amazing atmosphere for those first fragile touches that, when they’re good, are so very, very good. It could’ve been so sweet, so… not awful, such a pretty memory. As it was, not so much. Maybe someday my mind will erase annoying-friend-faced-bad-kisser guy and slot someone more eligible into that recollection.
I still like that song anyway, though.
As a man who’s been married quite happily for over 12 years to a woman that he dated for years before that, I’ll admit to wistfully remembering the truly tender first touches and kisses. They created an experience that is like none other, and there is no way to feel that way again with that person. Oh, I suppose that the opening of sexual intimacy is the next step, but frankly, to me it was nowhere nearly as big a leap as that first kiss.
In my mid-20′s, I had just about figured dating out, sort of, and remember casting out a couple of reckless first kisses that I never would have tried, before. As you may recall from meeting this August, I verge on giantism, and I have always been very aware of how my corporeal size could be intimidating. So I was generally passive, waiting for her to kiss me, or to invite me to kiss her. I would literally just ask for permission, on occasion. This broke the mood, sometimes. Waiting sure’s hell denied me some opportunities. I can remember a double-handful of “should have kissed her” moments in my youth. After I figured out that the majority of women that I was dating really were usually thinking the same thing (“Kiss. I’d really like one of those.”), I frankly began to overcompensate for lost time.
I recall one date with a lady who was frankly out of my league (5 years older, very fit, completing her doctorate in psychology, working as a school counselor, living a higher quality of life, vs. my uneducated, under-employed, poorhouse-living, 24 year-old self), whom I wrangled a first date with. After drinks and dinner at a nice, accessible place, I walked her out to her car, and kissed her. It was wrong. It didn’t fit. We… grappled. Although we did eventually date more, including that all-important Third Date, it just didn’t really happen for us, and I partially blamed (irrationally, I know) that terrible abortion of a first kiss that I threw out there at her.
To this day (15 years later), I have NEVER set foot back on the premises of that restuarant, which is a shame, because they have a superb beer selection. The association with my bungled forced first kiss is too strong.
Gosh, QP, how *dare* you not be attracted to a guy who wasn’t attractive to you.
…That’s kind of the vibe I get from this story. You sound so guilty about not being swept away with rapture for this dude.
I got an other vibe, Holly– that she felt sorry that the potentially incredibly romantic moment was wasted, on a guy that did nothing for her.
Emotions aren’t right or wrong; they simply are.
But she gave it the old college try, anyway. :)
I got a little bit of both, but mostly it made me remember that my first few kisses were in fact with guys I wasn’t really attracted to (look, I was shocked and flattered anyone was interested at that point), and how huge a difference it made with the first few touches with one I WAS. I had thought I didn’t like kissing…
But when it’s right, it’s so amazing! I want kisses like that. It’s been far too long.