In His Kiss

I recently had a wild night out, which I try not to do on such a regular basis, okay, who am I kidding? In New York City, wild nights are about as normal as the tourists in Time Square (which btw, could you please stop walking so slow, some of us have places to actually go instead of buildings to stare at). A friend of a friend was throwing a house party. You know the kind of parties that remind you of your college days: everyone’s sweating, crowding the make shift bar, guys trying to talk to just about anything that walks in the door with breasts and everyone is either extremely drunk or very angry that they’re sober. I didn’t find out until later that I did know who’s house I was in, but that’s not really important-what’s important is that a good guy friend, Darryl, who was once more than that, but is definitely now just a friend (about as friendly as male and females can be-don’t worry, there will definitely be a blog on that topic soon), came to the party looking for something.

That something turned out to be me.

He sauntered up, drunk. I was in the other category (pissed) for several reasons. One, house parties are either amazing, when you’re drunk, or horrible, when you aren’t. Since I wasn’t, it was just hot and annoying. Too many people stuffed in a small spot and I’m pretty sure I saw a girl or two in shirts that were masquerading as dresses…unsuccessfully. At any rate, drunken Darryl made his way over to me and immediately started ‘bothering’ me. Now when I say bother, I mean it in the strictest sense of the word. Another man was chatting me up and Darryl decided that my thigh needed pinching, my butt needed slapping, or my arm needed kissing, yes kissing. He was being so annoying, yet there was still a small part of me that would always have some sort of soft spot for him, so I just sort of giggled and kept telling him to stop. Eventually, I had no choice but to give him my full attention.

Darryl and I have a very sordid past-ie, he couldn’t seem to get his life together to stop thinking and start doing. He talked a wonderful game, but didn’t do much in the path of action. I grew extremely tired of it and let it go. There are way too many sharks in the sea to bother with flounder. It happened by mere coincidence that I was ready to leave the party as was Darryl. I immediately got a great idea in my head: sex. I thought it was a wonderful plan and we took off hand in hand towards my apartment. All the way there, Darryl was talking as if he planned on taking major action (finally!)when we got inside my front door and once we reached whatever surface we could find, it’d be over for all involved. Well, this fish was apparently not as hungry as he pretended to be and as soon as we got rolling he started acting odd. And I do mean rolling. Essentially, he started the engines, but didn’t leave the dock. But that wasn’t even the biggest problem, well yes it was, but it isn’t the point of this story at the moment. The point is: we didn’t kiss at all during this interesting excursion. Now I don’t know where you get your rules from, Darryl or whoever else falls into this silly no-kissing category, but women like to be kissed. It’s apart of the turn on for us. So if you’re trying to get downtown, I suggest you start uptown first. You are more than welcome to kiss wherever you want later, but you should absolutely start with the lips, er, the mouth. And fear not, kissing will not make you our boyfriend. It will not make us love you. It won't make us attached in any way. It will make us want you and then everyone will be happy.

Instead, the whole scenario went downhill from there. I realized that I’d be pretending I wanted this and he wasn’t really worth all the effort. He left mumbling something about us caring about each other too much, who knows? But as I lay in bed that night, I thought to myself: would it have even mattered? In those moments before his conscience took over, I was definitely not my usual firey self. I was thinking a lot about what was going on verses losing myself in the fun. And I believe that because we weren’t kissing, locked in some sort of steamy embrace, he was thinking too much as well-as he’s prone to do.

Kissing matters no matter which way you gut the fish.

That bitch stole my line,
xoxo Blackie Collins