Come walk with me through the unknown……….
We stop to inhale. “Allie, do you french?”
“French Kiss?”
“Yea.”
“Kinda stupid question. You’re my first boyfriend, so no, I’ve never tried it on a mirror or anything.”
I ignore her cut, I’m on a mission. “Do you want to try?”
Bright Eyes, her dimples crease. “Hell, yes.”
So we’re off, not to see the wizard, but off to start tongue wars.
Needless to say, we were fast learners. The usual problems–smeared lipstick (not her, dummy, on ME!), saliva amassing, breathing through your nose without sounding like a sperm whale, you remember, doncha?
In retrospect, we had lit a fire of passion. We kissed for fun and affection, but now frenching became something that could grow and blossom in intensity, like a learning permit for making love. (My college gf called it ‘running through the gears’–starting slow, then shifting into tongue madness.) Frenching took more time as we changed positions. Kissing was still fun, but now it was fun to satisfy a hunger. A hunger that would only grow.