To kiss or not to kiss, that is… well, that is never the part I struggle with. A much more difficult question is whether one should spend more time thinking (or wanking) over kisses that have happened, considering ones that didn’t and will never happen, or fantasising about those that are yet to come? Kissing has been taking up a lot of my thoughts today, in case you haven’t worked that out…
She holds my hands behind my back when she kisses me.
I can’t work out, afterwards, if she takes a hand in each of hers and pins them behind me while she kisses me, or holds both of my hands in one of hers. If she did does the latter, maybe her other hand gently cups my face or strokes my hair. It’s hard to remember exactly what happens, because this woman captivates me when she kisses me.
With my hands pinned behind my back, I am helpless. I can do nothing but surrender to her kiss. There’s nothing I want to do more than surrender to her kiss.
All I want to do is lean over and kiss him.
I know it’s been almost a year since I have kissed him, but I know my lips will remember his. It is so hard to sit still, to focus on having a normal conversation when he’s so close. It would be so easy to swing my leg over his and straddle his lap. My face just a few inches from his, it would be even easier to lean in and press my lips against his. So familiar, so safe. Even thinking about it makes me slick my knickers.
I stop myself from kissing him. If I kiss him today, it will erase all possibility of me ever doing so ever again. Not that I think I will, but friendship might one day turn to fucking again, and that can’t happen if I fuck everything up by kissing him today.
For something that I’ve thought about for years, the kiss is nothing like I’m expecting.
Probably because I’m not expecting it: I’ve promised myself that I’ll be good, that I would never kiss them without their explicit consent, and things were messy and blurred and so fucking complicated that I could never be the one to kiss them first. Of course, the way around that is for them to kiss me, which I was sure they never would.
Until they did, and their lips are warm against mine and the we’re sharing kiss is wet and messy. I can’t quite believe it is happening, but I try to concentrate, to kiss her well. I don’t want red wine and sleepiness to stop her from remembering that she kissed me.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.