Will You Kiss Me?

Will you kiss me?

My first romantic inclination began with the fantasy of a kiss at ten years old as I watched Superman fly among the clouds holding onto Lois Lane’s hand. I wanted to be her. I wanted to fly. I wanted to have someone read my thoughts, know what deep secrets hid inside my heart behind my thick wall of tragedy and lies. I wanted to be saved. I wanted to be kissed.

Will you kiss me?

My first real kiss at fifteen, not that wet awkward secret smack at five beneath the art table in Kindergarten, happened with my first crush. We met beneath the bleachers at the Pepperell football game. I can still remember how my lips tingled and my whole body shivered, and how his tongue tasted like Juicy Fruit gum. Even now, though he’s but a distant memory, I can still feel his fingers on the back of my neck and the way his thumb traced the side of my face.

Will you kiss me?

It may not have been my first kiss, but when a handsome soldier held my hand as we walked along the moonlit beach arguing over the constellations, he stopped me, placed both his hands on the sides of my face and looked me directly in the eyes as he declared his deepest love for me …that kiss brought me to life. I still sometimes feel the power of the bus station goodbye kiss. I hate constellations. I hate beaches. I hate bus stations. I hate goodbyes.

Will you kiss me?

Standing on that pickup curb at the airport, my legs shaking, my heart racing, and losing my breath at the sight of those hazel eyes, I almost couldn’t feel it when his lips connected with mine. It was overwhelming, because though I was in a place I’d never been, I felt at home. I felt safe. I felt found.

Will you kiss me?

Him lying across the foot of my bed, listening to me read to him from across the room, after enjoying a great meal and even better stimulating conversation, I felt him watching me and I couldn’t concentrate. I just wanted to kiss his perfectly plump lips. I always wait for the first move, brace myself, put up my guard and my walls, and then fight like hell to bring them down, usually unsuccessfully. Not with him. I actually asked for permission. I made the first move for the first time. Lightning struck and it burned hot. It still burns, haunting my dreams, torturing my imagination. It is so close yet beyond reach.

Will you kiss me?

Anticipation. Confliction. A secret kiss. So sweet. So gentle. So good. A stomach full of butterflies. A youthful invigoration. A smile. Untainted love.

Will you kiss me?

Who are you? Where will you come from? When will we meet? Will you soar with me in the clouds, taste sweet and tingly, bring me to life, make me feel safe and at home, burn with fire, and feel so innocent and sweet?

Can I kiss you? Please?

Lovin', and Huggin', and Kissin', and Squeezin'

I grew up with a skewed sense of touch.  I was never hugged as a child.  It wasn’t that my parents didn’t hug their children, my mother couldn’t hug my brothers enough. Perhaps I was an odd child and didn’t allow the interaction on the onset, because she never hugged me. I spent so much of my life angry and hugging just wasn't an acceptable affection.  Everyone that knew me noted my reluctance, earning me a few nick names.  I didn’t trust people, especially enough to let them touch me. 

In school, I was the same way with my friends.  While many of them hugged each other, (I thought it seemed odd to me the way girls were always going around hugging each other) they didn’t hug me, nor did I hug them back.  I’m sure that was also some unconscious decision on my part. I’ve purposefully tried to change that habit over the years, especially since getting published and going to signings and meeting fans. 

I don’t like to be touched on a regular basis.  It took me years to get okay with the people at church, especially here in the Deep South who have no concept of personal space and without permission would just wrap their arms around me and squeeze, to always hug me on greetings and salutations.  Well, quite honestly, I've never become okay with the action.  I just tolerated it because I understood it was the custom.

I don't have to worry about hugging at work, because I an a professional, and professionals shake hands. That’s usually my first response when I meet someone – to push my hand out there.  It serves as both a greeting and a barrier to protect against an invasion of my personal space.

For the twenty years I was married, my husband was a gentle, caring man, but we rarely hugged and never kissed. Yet, he knew the boundaries and knew what forms of touch would calm me.  He had this way of sitting next to me and gently rubbing my arm.  It was a small amount of touch, but it had a huge result, because it would calm me, reassure me everything was going to be okay, and let me know he cared.  There were times I was afraid, and all I needed was that little bit of contact, and my fears would go away. 

When my children were little I covered them with hugs and kisses and told them I loved them all the time.  We used to have these early morning sessions before school where they fought over who got to be beside me and who loved me most.  But as they grew, I apparently taught them to hold back when it came to touching me or showing affection.  Sometimes this hurts my heart.  I know they love and care for me, but somehow I still managed to build this barrier between us. They don’t hug, kiss, or touch me, nor do they tell me they love me. When they do, it's awkward.

I don’t believe I’m opposed to being hugged, touched, squeezed or told I'm loved, but I sure do make it hard. I dream of it often. I desire to be kissed, to be caressed, and to be cherished, to be romantically persued. My fantasies are most often very simple, surrounding the act of being held. There are so many nights I curl into a tight ball and hug myself because I’m scared, lonely, and physically ache for human contact. I have wonderful friends who are always quick to give me words of encouragement when I’m down, and I love them for it.  But the ones I love most can’t put their arms me when I’m scared.  The ones I trust most can’t hold me when I’m hurting.  The ones I desire most are very far away.  Part of me wonders if that too was a subconscious decision. I’ve only ever felt comfortable and trusted one person’s touch, surely there’s another out there.

I know there is something special about human contact.  There’s something special about lovin’, huggin’, kissin’, and squeezin’. I just haven’t found the key to making it a reality, yet. I'm very comfortable being on my own now, and know that I don't need anyone in my life to be happy.  I WANT someone in my life... to hold me. If you have someone in your life you can wrap your arms around, do it, and be thankful.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

Kissing

I love kissing, though it has played a strange role in my life.  I remember my first kiss.  It wasn’t that deep and passionate or soft and sensual kind.  It was the innocent and sweet kind of experience.  I can remember the way his warm, soft lips felt on mine, even now after 38 years.  Time stopped in that moment for me.  Not because it was a kiss, but because I think it was the first healthy expression of affection I ever received.  Under the art table in Mrs. Bonnet’s class, with finger-paint smeared on my smock, James Sylvester kissed me. But more than that, his kiss made me aware there were things such as sweetness and beauty in the world.  Does he remember the kiss?  He says he did when nine years later, at the age of fourteen, he kissed me again behind the bleachers at a dog show.

There’s something quite intimate about kissing, at least for me.  I don’t just kiss anyone, it has to feel right.  I’m one of those people who don’t just do something to do it; it’s got to mean something.  When I was teenager, I watched all my friends around me kissing all the time, but I never quite understood how some of them could be so casual about it; quite often kissing more than one person in a single day.  I felt their free expression cheapened the experience.  At least it did for me when I took a chance and engaged in a few careless kisses. 

I know that was my doing, making the act of kissing something precious, something special.  Don’t get me wrong; in the privacy of my room, I fantasized plenty about kissing, even practicing on my arm, my pillow, and even myself in the mirror.   But when an opportunity came to engage, I often turned my head.  Needless to say, during those awkward teen years, I didn’t keep boyfriends very long because they took my lack of kissing as a sign of disinterest.  When I did find one I enjoyed kissing, who I opened my life and my heart, I discovered they enjoyed kissing many other lips besides my own.

I recently came out of a very long, committed relationship.  Although I deeply care about this person, we were never a couple that kissed.  We have kissed, but it was always awkward and devoid of passion, like kissing a brother or a best friend.  I want passion.  I want fire.  I want chemistry.  I want a kiss that I can feel all the way to my toes.  I want to feel the tingle still on my lips long after the kiss is over.  I want the memory of the kiss to cause my stomach to flutter and take my breath away.  I want lips that are swollen and chapped from the excess and pressure of a good kiss.  I know this exists.  I’ve had a small taste.   I want someone who will want to kiss me when I’m eighty and it mean just as much as it did the first time.  I won’t apologize for wanting these things.  In fact, I think it’s about time I started reaching for the things I want most in this life, including a kiss.

If you have a kiss like that, cherish and appreciate it.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray