Far before sex becomes a threshold (be it for masculinity or within a relationship), a simple kiss is one. We’ve all, I’m sure, at some point, encountered that hesitancy of should I kiss them or not. I’ve certainly found myself in such moments while walking someone home, standing a half-lean away from them outside their building, or sitting alongside them with our bodies parallel but our necks straining to face each other. In those moments, the festering, cyclical thoughts about what will transpire next preoccupy my brain to the point where I feel dissociated and absent from the here and now.
At the end of this first night, when I sit at the foot of L’s bed having just spent close to half an hour at a kitchen island seamlessly chatting with her roommate as if we’d long been acquainted, nothing feels uncertain. It’s inevitable that we’ll kiss. It’s a concoction of affirmation, appeasement, serenity, and eagerness. It’s exactly where I’m supposed to be and who I’m supposed to be with, and despite knowing how perfect the next moment will be, I’m in no rush to leave the here and now—when she’s already fluent in my sarcasm and I’m already fluent in her smile. Regardless of how highly valued a commodity physical contact may be, being an arm’s length from her, in a room dimly lit by streetlights peering through curtains, our smirks indicating we’re sharing a wavelength, is equally as immaculate, satisfying.
It’s as if there’s a bottomless well of words and jokes next to me at the edge of this bed, and I can subsist on them, and with her, for the rest of my days. It’s both a power trip and a fall into submission. Total control and absolute fragility. It’s like being both a resistible force and a movable object: a cat and a mouse, the pretzel and the feta. Whatever cliché you want to use. I could never speak for her, but I hope L feels the same way.