damonjustisntfunny.com

It’s not that I’m unattractive.

Not particularly, anyhow.

Then again: I am not particularly attractive, either.

But that, obviously, is neither here nor there and it is certainly not one of the necessary criteria; a good many dreadfully awful looking people have been (and continue) counting at a livelier pace than I do.

It is more because I am, perhaps, both picky and odd and anything but salacious. So I have neither truly put the effort behind the endeavor nor am I willing to compromise for its sake and, therefore, I continue to reap what I sow. Which isn’t very much.

I was gifted my first kiss at the age of eighteen. That was #1. Six years later and I have kissed just four other women, which brings me to #5. I am in search of #6.

I remember each first kiss with each woman distinctly. But this is not hard: if I had forgotten the circumstances it might depress me more than the number alone. Three happened on a bed; one on the edge of a garden wall; one on the floor. They were all shockingly poignant, in the moment at least, and created a immediate explosion of analytical thoughts that paraded around in my mind observing my actions like voyeurs with no shame of being caught. In each and every instance a number clicked somewhere behind me like an umpire behind home plate. I am a numbers man. The kisses themselves had faded; until now, I had never thought on them. But I have always remembered the number. I wonder if I cannot enjoy that initial moment because of all these thoughts flitting about in the corners of my mind. To others a kiss may be a casual thing; for me, it is of epic proportions and requires a film crew like that on the set of Gandhi’s funeral in order to validate and document the decision-making behind it all. I do not tread lightly in these dark waters.

I have never cared much for kissing. Perhaps I am, myself, a lousy kisser or have only been with lousy kissers or haven’t really given myself a chance to enjoy it — more kissing, less thinking, that sort of thing — but, the fact remains: I just don’t care much for it. At least: the act itself, that is. What a kiss symbolizes for me, in terms of commitment and emotional attachment, is of great import, which is why I am so protective of my lips. That and: I have never cared much for kissing.

Yet still I am looking for more opportunities to kiss and be kissed, despite my reservations about the entire process and general dissatisfaction with the outcome. Making-out appears to me to be like toasting the bread and then tossing it out; like starting the car and leaving it in the carport; like riding a stationary bike on a sunny day. All the while you are kissing and wondering: “Why can’t I just go to sleep already? That’s what I’ll end up doing anyhow — why bother?” The British call it snogging. This is a terrible word and I hate it more than most words because it is terrifically unsatisfying to say. But kissing is likewise unsatisfying and snogging is therefore fitting. I am left with a strange taste in my mouth and, stranger still, wanting more.

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