I’ve kissed people for a lot of reasons in my life. I’ve kissed on a dare, on a date, on a drunken impulse. I’ve kissed to win someone over or win someone back. I’ve kissed to seem cool, to seem hot, to seem up for anything. I’ve kissed to arouse, to tempt, to silence and to mollify. I’ve kissed because it seemed like the right thing to do, or because no other option seemed possible. I’ve kissed because I was lonely, horny, scared, jealous, sad, cold, or delirious.
I have not often kissed purely for pleasure. I should do that more.
My relationship to kissing has always been highly contextual. In high school I thought I “just wasn’t that into it” because the few kisses I’d experienced were awkward, more prone to making me dissociate from anxiety than dissolve into moans. By my early twenties, I’d had a few too many overzealous tongues thrusted down my throat, and wasn’t sure I’d ever learn to like kissing; it took a very patient, sweet man with soft lips and a tongue-tie(!) to convince me that I could actually enjoy making out.
That kind of “kissing chemistry” has been relatively rare in my life. I have it with my now-wife, natch (probably wouldn’t have gotten this far with her if I didn’t!), and there are a handful of people in my dating history who kissed me so deliciously that I missed their lips far longer than I missed them. By and large, though, within the last decade, when I’ve gone on dates with new people, I’ve been more nervous than excited for the kissing bit – because odds are always decent it’ll turn me right off, if we’re not a good fit in that arena. I’ve even gone so far as to set a no-kissing boundary with certain dates, when I just didn’t feel like rolling the dice.