why is sex about the mouth. The lips. They say, her lips, and they are talking about her vagina. A wet smile of pink flesh opening wide. Anais nin writes a story about a woman who uses lipstick, traces the outline of her lips, a wet mouth buried in a cloud of pubic hair. She looks up and smiles and her cunt smiles, wide and red, twin mouths, but which one to chose. The same grinning, welcoming sentiment echoed by her actual lips, covered in lipstic, opening wetly and closin. A penis could come into either mouth. We have twin kisses and double penetration.
And so here I am again, leaping for the point of things too quickly, greedy for the finale and forgetting about the pleasures of the overture. Perhaps this is why I did not discover kissing until too late. The hot ball of desire is wound deep in my belly and this has always been the way for me. While other little girls kissed their pillow, I wrapped my legs around it and kissed it with that other mouth, the lips that I could never speak with, the ones that knew no language but sex. Kissing was for fairytales. Kissing was for sleeping girls, a heart-starter, like a shock used for the sad or the comatose. Kissing was not in my repertoire and often I turned my head and let the kisses fall on my neck where they would be wet and feirce, for I was awake before the shock of it could be applied. I was always wired for it. My nether lips hungry. I saved my lips for sweet smiles and clever words and kissed very little if at all.
So why all the poetry? Why all the hearts and flowers and the idea that a lack of kissing would lead to a kind of emotional death. Why the need for romance. What is a kiss and why do we lean towards it with such fervour. Today is the first day of my exporation into this. French kiss, kissing booth, eskimo kiss, the germs passed back and forth, cold sores, consumption, killed by a kiss. The whole hot mouth to mouth thing. I wonder why? kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss.