Guest blog: Kiss me

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

This guest blog was born as one of the sexiest Twitter threads I think I’ve ever read, by @mudkri. The way she writes about kissing and being kissed made me realise I’d been aching and yearning for someone to kiss me. For exactly the kind of kissing-for-kissing’s sake that she was describing. Or maybe her thread brought on that yearning – described it all so beautifully, with such delicious shuddery intensity, that I subsumed her wants into my own. I don’t know. All I know is that this is indescribably hot. Thank you so much, Kristina, for bringing that joy to this blog.

Kiss me

How beautiful she was when she let me kiss her ~ The Phantom of the Opera

Kissing. Singularly or coupled with other carnal acts is the greatest high achievable without the necessity of artificial stimulus. Sure. You can still have fun getting your mouth on someone after a few pints but being wholly present and getting your mouth on someone, what an absolute high.

Kiss me.

In general, we don’t kiss enough. I don’t kiss enough. Romantically or platonically, curiously kissing is a language and a dialogue. A feeling in your extremities that we should experience more often. Just kiss to kiss. To taste. To learn your language. The smell of your skin. The hitch of your breath. The grasp of your hands. Let’s talk about that. Kiss me.

Have you ever kissed soft-soft lips? Ones whetted with anticipation and nervous palms. The tentative dance of which way will my head go. Let me reach up on my tippy toes. Let’s brush our mouths across one another. Watch my glasses. Let’s make this last. You’ll smudge my lipstick. Let me look into your eyes. See me. To be kissed on the mouth – claimed – is eroticism. Kiss me.

To be kissed beyond the expected places and fairytale sweet places of supple cheeks and furrowed brows is to map desire. And how desirable those places are.

Have you ever been kissed on the inner wrist? Felt a thumb stroke back and forth there ever so slightly, like a feather. A bowed head that takes in your scent and reverently places a kiss right where you were wearing a watch. Worship that small patch of your skin, tongue the surface as if you’re ice cream, and kiss. A romantic kiss that you’ll never forget. And they haven’t even touched any other part of you. Kiss me. 

All the times we should have asked, may I kiss you and didn’t, we should lament. Kissing can lead to sex but it doesn’t have to. It’s sex and sexy enough on its own. The sensual aspect of it is liberating, the shared closeness comforting, the physicality addicting. My idea for less risky times is a kissing service. You pick a set of lips and get 20 minutes of snogging at your desk and then go back to work. Sometimes what we need is to be held and breathlessly kissed, like really kissed until our anxiety is tempered over that email, that project, that wave of sadness, or just because.

Have you felt a kiss on the back of your neck? An arm around your waist, your hair pushed aside, goosebumps travelling up your spine? Felt the fan of breath move through your body from the top of your head to the tips of your toes as a warm mouth descended and reverently kissed you. The feeling of melting into someone is never keener, never sweeter. It makes you giggle. Kiss me.

Kissing creates a connection between us. Kissing makes us feel good. Kissing alone is exercise. All of the beauty and artistry that go into getting people to share through kissing is a gift. We never forget first kisses or last kisses. Platonic kisses and strictly ‘I’m going to kiss you to fuck you’ kisses. They’re all archived, to be referenced later when we get the opportunity to do it again. More kissing could perhaps save the world. What would be the harm in trying?

Have you ever been kissed from across a crowded room? Have you felt a gaze land on you, traverse your face, your neck, your body? Felt that kiss spread across your chest as the eyes did not waiver from yours? Emboldened by your fluster watched as someone crossed a room, for you, they were coming to you, and ohmygod a crowd parted for them and a mouth hungrily fell to yours and owned you. Right there. Kiss me.

Kissing is like talking. We want to hear about people’s stuff. Please tell me your stuff, nothing is hotter than that, even when we don’t understand. It’s joyful. Kissing is the same. Talk to me, repeatedly. Make me listen with the action of your mouth, tell me a story that has a beginning a middle, and an end. For the rest of our lives.

Have you ever been held down, just there, and kissed with a hot greedy mouth? Kissed without quarter while you squirmed and tried to play pushback? But your body was not yours. It was being ruined. Decimated. The holy centre of you was passionately worshipped; a firm mouth, a languorous tongue, and scratchy beard so unrelenting you felt you could fly? You did fly. You left your body. Death by kisses. Do that. Kiss me.

Kissing is the best. And the worst. The best when we get to do it all the time with a person available and willing and who makes our toes curl. The worst when you go without them for whatever reason, distance or lack of care.

Kiss more if you can, with consent. In private, in public. In restaurants and at the movies. In the shower and while holding hands. Tell someone you’d like to kiss them, on principle alone. Kiss lovers and friends. Kiss new places – the shell of the ear, the hollow of a knee, the pillowy juncture of the thigh. The underside of the dick, and run your tongue along there until you get kissed. The small of the back. All places are kissing places.

Let me bury my face in the crook of your neck and close my eyes and track your heartbeat. Let me feel your hands hold my ass to your lap. Let me lick a path from jaw to eager mouth. Let me let me let me …

Kiss you.


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