Kissing is a form of art

Kissing is an art. Either you’re a good kisser, confident and knowledgeable, experienced and ready to sneak away for a quick lapse of morals or you’re passionless twig. I dare you to kiss that someone who is waiting in the wings. It’s just a kiss. Echo and The Bunnymen, sang in their song Rescue, “First I want a kiss and then I want it all.” I’m married - all I want is a kiss. If I want more, I can watch porn.
There have been some women I have kissed who showed me some tricks. There was Janine who taught me the seductive lick. She’d pull back and caress my face and lick my lips, chin and neck. Thank you Janine for teaching me this wonderful trick, it has been used to impress so many times. Makes the knees weak - an obvious indication for things to come. Some of the best kisses have been ducking into an alley in the rain, hiding in the dark woods away from cops who crashed a good party, at an airport before flying off, in the lobby of a hotel, cause a room was not appropriate, or in the middle of the night when searching for and discovering the darkened face and then hearing the sighs.
There have been lips I’ve desired, lips that are a little pouty on the bottom with a little crevice in the center as if the warm sparking saliva would lay there till dried by the sun. The lips you desire, these perfect creations that were born to be kissed a million times by a million mouths.
What is French kissing? I asked. It’s when you open your mouth. Back in elementary school, we hid from our parents and had to show each other the differences. Thank you Theresa who I loved in elementary school and spied on from the top of the staircase as she read the valentine candy hearts she plucked out of the little white box, were you thinking of me in your fourth grade mind? Thank you topless dancer in Mugsy’s Place, so many years ago in a building now demolished on 110 in Huntington Station. We just melted together after opening up our hearts and drawing in for a taste as others casually watched in the dim bar. I think of her and imagine she could be a grandmother or owns a taxi stand in the Bronx.
When I write about kissing, I have to think what the character would do, for instance Mick Doran in my novel Killer Commute is not a romantic man. He wishes he was, but he too absorbed in the murder investigation and is a “suffering” hypochondriac. So how could I even think of developing his love interest? My earlier drafts included his relationship in more detail with his neighbor who is a divorcee. Edits were effective to keep on track with the plot and some aspects were skimmed. If Mick described kissing, he would question his breath, worry about his girlfriend’s germs, and then just take in the moment. Not too romantic, but I kept with his character.