When she asked me if there was someone I ever wanted to kiss but didn’t, I couldn’t think of anyone. I just drew a blank. Is it because I’ve kissed the men I wanted to kiss, or is it because I no longer allow myself to dream?
You know, I’ve been living with someone for so long. now, I hardly remember. He doesn’t like kissing much—a peck here and there—he’s pretty much trained me out of it. He says it’s like permanently being on Novocain. Not exactly romantic. Ever since the accident—did I tell you his whole face got smashed in? His jaw was wired shut for three months. The doctors did a real good job but they used so many titanium stars to patch his face, he can’t get through a metal detector without setting off alarms..
Since the accident, he doesn’t get many calls for work. A commercial shoot here and there. Don’t get me wrong,, he still sets off some alarms. The women all think he’s eye candy. They drool all over his sleeves. It drives me crazy. I guess I did it too. But we’d only just met and then the accident took front seat in our lives. You can hardly see the scars..
The real problem is the invisible ones, the ones you can’t see.
When was the last time I imagined kissing a stranger’s lips? To look, but to imagine was to get too close? Like getting burned in the fire. They say when the gods kiss a woman, pfft! she goes up in smoke, consumed by passion. That was from The Man Who Would Be King. Now I wouldn’t mind kissing Sean Connery, but I assume we’re discussing real people. Not that Sean isn’t real, he isn’t available. I like the idea of a kiss so hot that it consumes. Yeah, I’d like to feel like that again.
Come to think of it, there was a man I wanted to kiss and I swear it lasted for years. But I never did it because he was a happily married man. Ah, guilt. I never let it stop me before, but this was different. Maybe I was afraid if we started it, we couldn’t stop it, and it was one of those rare times I had enough sense to know I was on the rebound. Because he was a co-worker, we often went to events together. There was this conference in southern California, so we carpooled down to Happy Valley, and for ten hours we just couldn’t stop talking to each other. It seemed natural to share a room too... we must’ve downloaded our lives to each other that night. And only the twin beds separating us.
* * * *
The next night, I couldn’t deal with it, I was climbing the effing walls. I had to distract myself, so we broke into the resort bar and got loaded. Poets behind the bar, poets on the bar—poets everywhere being bad poets. It was a scream. Amazingly we never got caught. Anyway, about 3 AM, a girlfriend and I got this crazy urge to row out into the middle of the frog pond like a couple of Vikings yakking about everything under the sun—except it was under the moon— we really were drunk out of our minds...that was my escape ’cause all I wanted to do was to jump Arthur’s bones. He was safely sleeping like a babe back in the room while here I was, I was freezing my ass off on the pond with Kim but she wasn’t my type either as I certainly didn’t want to kiss her.
I never knew if Arthur even sensed it, but the attraction was so strong, I’m sure he noticed it too. He could have been as preoccupied as me. I first knew something was up when he made a wild Freudian slip, saying that we could have a meeting at his house, but instead of saying, “I’ll tell Jill,” —that’s his wife—he said, “I’ll KILL Jill..” There’s a long road between tell and kill. Right? I said, “that kind of loyalty to the organization wasn’t necessary.” But that’s when it all began. Not only was he married, I was the older woman. I couldn’t explain it. Why I couldn’t shake the attraction. Forbidden love and all that was part of it. Yes, I was alone, and no, Tryggve, my sometimes lover, didn’t exactly do it for me. Besides, he had a girlfriend. I’m not into playing second fiddle.
See, I was really on the rebound after a disastrous break-up with John, I went anorexic and all that. He dumped me for this blonde teenager. I was hurting pretty bad and had a few intense relationships. Bruce Isaacson was one. See, I kissed him on April Fool’s Day, and all hell broke loose. We were at a dance at Fort Mason—it was after the poetry festival, and I had tuberoses in my hair and the moon was full and we just couldn’t help ourselves. Poets are so incestuous. Well, I wrote him a poem and I read it to his answering machine. He neglected to tell me about his girlfriend and she found out and went ballistic with threatening phone calls... often there was nothing on the other line. It went on for years. I think she cracked up after Bruce left her. Barbara was her name, the barbarian woman, and she really banked on it. Riding on Bruce’s leopard skins. I mean we were not in the same standing poetically, or anything.
Bruce was a suburban bad boy in black leather and chrome, playing at the stud, busy kicking off the Babaarians—great new blood after all that Language School crap—new blood was sorely needed in the poetry scene. Sometimes kissing is like that, it has no logic, no boundaries. It takes you out of your world, makes you risk everything. Whole kingdoms have been lost because of it. Look at Helen of Troy. I was no Helen (even if it was my mom’s middle name—she had some stories to tell) but I didn’t fancy destroying a kingdom for a kiss.
Arthur? Well, there was always a buzz there between us. Christmas parties were the hardest with all the little angels on the tree. You know, baby cupid lips. See, he had these pouty lips like on Greek or Roman statues. Full, curved, like David’s. In fact, his body was smooth and white as marble. It made me wish I was born a few years later. He and Jill finally settled in and had a baby, and then another one after that, and that just about took care of it. After all those babies, I was no longer interested. But sometimes I still dream of kissing those lips.
2002
for Brighde Mullins class
Someone I Wanted to Kiss But Didn’t
(10-minute freewrite for Brighde
Mullins) 3/12/2002
There must‘ve been someone I
wanted to kiss but didn’t and I can’t think of anyone. Is it because I’ve
always kissed the ones I wanted to kiss, or is it because I didn’t allow myself
to dream. I’ve been living with someone for so long who doesn’t seem to like
kissing so I guess I could wish to kiss him, but that doesn’t count, does it?
Something memorable, like First Kiss is easier. I have imagined kissing a
stranger’s lips, where they haunted me and I looked but to look was to get too
close. Like getting burned in the fire. They say when the Gods kiss a woman,
she dies, pfft! Consumed by flame. I learned that from The Man Who Would Be
Kink. Now I would like to kiss Sean Connery’s lips but I assume we’re talking
about real people. Not that Sean isn’t real, he isn’t available. I like the
idea of a kiss being so hot that it consumes. Feed the flame.
Yes. Arthur. There was a man
I wanted to kiss and that desire lasted for years. I never kissed him because
he was happily married (ah, the guilt and secret deliciousness of repressed desire. Arthur Dawson was a
co-worker, a poet in the schools like me. He and I often went to conferences
together. There was one conference in particular in southern California at
Happy Valley where we shared a room and it was one of those magical times where
we couldn’t stop talking to each other...I mean we downloaded lives that night.
and only twin beds separating us. .
I couldn’t deal with the
close proximity of it all, I was climbing the walls. literally. The next night,
I had to distract myself by way of sublimation, several of us broke into the
resort bar and got very loaded. Poets behind the bar, poets everywhere being
bad poets. It was a scream. Hilarious. But that’s our job to be naughty. My
sublimation was rowing out on the pond with a girlfriend till dawn, talking of
everything under the sun—except it was the moon— we really
were drunk out of our minds...that was my escape ’cause all I wanted to do was
to jump Arthur’s bones. He was
safely sleeping back in the room while I was freezing my ass off on the pond
with Kim but she wasn’t my type either and I certainly didn’t want to kiss her.
I never know if Arthur even
sensed it but the attraction was so great that I’m sure he couldn’t help but
notice. But then again, he could
have been as preoccupied as me. I knew something was up when he’s had a real
Freudian slip saying that we could have a meeting at his house, instead of
asking his wile Jill, he said, “I’ll KILL Jill..” There’s a long road between
Tell and Kill. Right? I said that
kind of loyalty to the organization wasn’t necessary. But that’s where it all
began, where I knew our connection was more than skin deep. But not only was he
married, I was the older woman. I couldn’t explain it . Why I couldn’t shake
the attraction. Forbidden love and all that was part of it. Yes, I was alone,
and no Tryggve, my sometimes lover, didn’t exactly do it for me. Besides, he had a girlfriend.
See, I was really on the
rebound after the disastrous break-up with John Oliver Simon, I went very
anorexic and all that, and had a few interesting relationships while on the
rebound. Bruce Isaacson was one. See, I kissed him and all hell broke loose. I t
was April Fools Day and the moon was full at Fort Mason. We were at a poet’s
dance after the festival, and I had tuberoses in my hair and the moon was full
and we couldn’t help ourselves. Well, I wrote him a poem and read it over the
phone to him and his girlfriend found out and she sent me threatening letters
and hostile phone calls...sometimes nothing on the other line. It went on for
years. I think she cracked up after Bruce left her. Barbara was her name, the
barbarian, and she really banked on it. Riding on Bruce’s leopard skins. I mean
we were not in the same standing poetically or anything. Bruce was a suburban
bad boy playing at the stud, busy kicking off the Babaarians—great new blood
poets after all that Language School crap—new blood was sorely needed in the
poetry scene, but sometimes
kissing is like that, it has no logic, no boundaries. It takes you out of your
world, makes you risk everything. Whole kingdoms have been lost because of it.
Look at Helen of Troy. I was no Helen (even if it was my mom’s middle
name—there are some storys there, I tell you!) but I didn’t fancy destroying a kingdom for a kiss.
Arthur? Well, there was
always a buzz there between us. Christmas parties were always the hardest with
little angels on the tree. Angel lips. See, he had these pouty Greek or Roman
statue lips. Full, curved, like David’s statue. In fact his body was smooth and
white as marble. He and Jill finally settled in and had a baby, and then
another one after that, and that just about took care of it. After all those
babies, I was no longer interested in kissing him. But sometimes I still dream
of those Greek statue lips!
