Kiss and Tell

Let's get personal for a while.




I'm the sort of girl who's always had a boy she can go to. I was five when I had my first kiss from a boy. Eight when I had my first boyfriend. But I wouldn't loose my virginity till I was seventeen and a half - six months before the goal I'd set myself for chastity.
Since then I've had intimate relationships, casual relationships, one-time things, long-term relationships, and those 'almost' relationships. I've done almost everything in the karma sutra and more besides. Learnt to flip a persons switch, make them last or make it quick... but for all that experience, and the made up fantasies, do you know what I love the most?


Kisses.


Now, maybe it's because I have a slight oral fixation, but kissing is the most wonderful (and sometimes most intimate) thing I think you can experience.
They say that a woman judges by a kiss how good a person is in bed. I guess on some level it's true - but it's more "Could I keep kissing this person while we were doing it, or would I rather forgo the procedure to avoid his lips?" if you ask me. My experience has taught me the only correlation between kissing and 'it' is responsiveness. If a guy kisses you by mimicking you, he'll do the same in bed. If he doesn't pay attention to what you want and just does whatever, he'll also do the same in bed. 


But what makes a good kiss?


There are so many types of kisses that it's hard to define what a 'good kiss' is.


There are some people who have hard lips. They don't mould to yours, they just press - like teeth almost. They aren't my favourite lips to caress, but there's a technique that (if they've mastered) makes it feel just as nice.
This technique is made up of being gentle, and using the tongue. You can't closed-mouth kiss someone with hard lips. It's just not right.


Then you have those people with amazingly soft lips, that you can brush lightly, or press firmly against, and it still feels good. They're full, and touchable, very kissable.


Once you get past that main difference though, the range of kissing is still immense! 


Taking from my own experiences, I've been kissed in a churning, half slobbering (unpleasant) way by a boy, who purposefully thinned his lips while kissing to make them hard. That tongue attempted to molest my lips - and failed.


Then there was the boy who never opened his mouth more than a centimetre, but managed to move just enough to make it feel nice. I'm not a fan of closed-mouth kissing unless it's short and sweet. But he managed it.


Of course, you then have the no-holding-back kissing; where your eyes are both closed and your world shrinks to the microcosm of where your mouths meet. If done right, this can be the best kiss in the world. It should start off slow, lips only open enough to cup the others upper or lower lip. Then the tongue starts to make a gentle appearance, just caressing lips, maybe touching in the middle; until finally both mouths press against each other like tectonic plates, moving each other apart to allow full access to one another. The only thing that ruins a kiss like this is lack of rhythm. Some people seem to think that once your mouth is open in a kiss it should stay that way so that you can explore inside with your tongue. They're wrong. Kissing is almost like eating the other person, in that you continue to open and close your mouth constantly. If you're going to pause in one position, it should be closed - preferably sucking gently on the other persons lip.


Then you get kisses that are just forceful. Sometimes these can convey the heat and passion of a moment, or a person - but most often they just convey the personality behind them. Forceful kissing is about getting what you want, and not taking no for an answer. If it's too hard, a yes will turn into a no; but just enough pressure will persuade many an uncertain heart. The forceful kiss is best used as a starter kiss rather than a continued one. A good forceful kiss should melt into something warm and wet if you ask me.


Of course, there's two types of forceful. There's the strong pressing of lips, which is what I meant above; but there's also the forceful kiss where two hands lightly grip your face, cupping your cheeks, drawing you in towards a soft, insistent pair of lips. 


Then you get the kisses that surprise you.
I said early that kissing conveys your personality. It's half true. Kissing conveys how you feel, how you feel about a person, and who you are - as well as what the situation is. It's very personal and very intimate - very telling. So when someone who's character you think you know kisses you differently to how you expect, it can be a surprise.
One time, during a kissing (read drinking) game, a boy had to kiss me while my back was pressed against the wall. This boy was fun, a bit 'laddish', kinda cocky; but his kiss was the most gentle brush of lips I'd ever really felt. If it had been shorter, I would have just assumed he hadn't wanted to kiss me. But it lasted long enough to make my heart do one of those loud 'thumps' that it makes when someone has shocked you in a good way. 


You can surprise people like that a lot. In social situations kisses are supposed to be over the top (among friends) or quick and business like... unless you're into PDA's (public display's of affection) - which I'm not particularly...
So when it's social, if you flip the charts you can really take someone by surprise. Lingering on a business-like kiss makes a person notice more. Making an OTT freindly kiss softer, gentler, but no shorter, makes a person pay attention too. 




Sometimes I crave a pair of lips to just touch with my own. To feel the heat with.
I think about the people I could kiss. Some of them good, some of them bad, some of them way off limits. There's a pair out there that can take my breath away with a soft kiss, or set my whole body on fire with a deeper one. Sometimes I think that kind of effect is linked to the person more than their lips - but others I wonder.


I've been told I'm a good kisser - but it's not true. I'm a great kisser. 
Confident? Yes. Over confident? Maybe.
But being able to pay attention to what makes a good kiss means that you're able to replicate it. And I'm lucky enough to have soft, full lips too.




You may be wondering why I chose to blog about kissing and lips.


You know those days when you just crave a chocolate bar, or steak and chips, or ice cream... crave it like an ache? Well, today I woke with the craving for lips. 
Since I'm alone in the house, and my friends are away for the weekend, you'd think I'd be safe. But since I'm going out this evening, if the craving hasn't died by then, I may end up putting myself into compromising positions to fulfil it. 
I hoped that writing about it would make me less hungry. 


Instead, I'm now thinking about the perfect pair of lips that I'm not sure if I've found yet. The ones that fit mine just right, and know exactly what to do when they're there. The pair that look beautiful smiling, and have a cheeky edge to them when they think of my lips. 


oh well!




Hey - at least I didn't list every single type of kiss there is, or explain them in detail! Then we both would have been here forever. 




For now, I'm going to leave you with the image of supple lips, pursed and poised for action. May all your kisses be sweet ones.




Blessed Be xx

Experimentations (from Assignment)

Experimentation in the form of

Jack Common, Kiddar’s Luck

            Now, before Mother’s self inflicted incarceration and ‘recovery’ – if you could call it such – we would often journey into town together. This was long before she had passed her driving test, and while she was still dependent on her electric wheelchair for mobility. The council had been called in to make the doors wider and install a ramp down our pathway in place of the front steps; placing square, wooden railings down the sides, to keep naughty children from jumping off the concrete side without having the ability to first swing under a so-called sturdy beam, which bowed under the weight of my ten-year-old bottom.

            These journeys started with me walking by her side, keeping up with the steady thrum of the motors; or walking behind her as if pushing it – a favourite pass time of mine, as it made me appear strong and skilful. The trips, however, tired me out, and often times I would be found standing on the back of the poor, overworked beast as we trundled back up the steep hill that lead to our little rented accommodation.

            One of these excursions marked a change in transport, as I decided that if I had wheels of my own, I would keep up much easier with my mothers contraption. The logic seemed sound, so I adorned my rollerblades and began the race to town. Later I could be found with my knees locked in place as I hitched a ride behind her chair, giggling at the odd and constant vibrations that shot up my legs from the uneven pavement.

(words, 262)

Experimentation in the style of:

Marguerite Duras, The Lover

            The trips into town stopped after mother’s recovery, as far as I remember. Stopped, of course, until she learnt to drive; then nothing kept her indoors. This was due to her giving up far more than just the morphine all in one go. I read her diary entry, or she read it to me. It told of how she had been cruel to my father in the evenings because he had ‘given me a hard time’, which meant that I, in turn, had made things harder for her. How she had undermined his attempts at authority. How she refused to ever use a wheelchair again – which, naturally, failed after several years, after her health deteriorated further.

            There was another diary entry I read of hers once. This one I remember all the more clearly because of the sure sense of guilt I felt for reading it. Secluded away in the bedroom, that, even then, my brother had departed from and left as ‘spare’, she had written it. The blue ink was spread seamlessly across loose pieces of paper, and, being loose, I happened to glance across them. I’m there, twelve years old, still in my uniform because changing out of it doesn’t yet feel obligatory as soon as I am free of the hell hole, leaning over the paper, darting glances at the door, sure that I’m about to be caught in this awful act of intrusion. I remember the vague content of that entry, they’ve haunted me for years. It detailed her dreams, or, at least, her waking from dreams. She would often fall asleep in her chair, only to either be wakened, or wake from a nightmare. The way she looked at us, with fear, even when I tried to coax her into full consciousness; perhaps I only noticed after the diary. She wrote that, when she woke, we weren’t us: we were demons. We looked just like us, but she knew better. That it wasn’t until father spoke to her, woke her fully, that we became human again. Only Dad’s voice could do it. I remember thinking: that’s what true love is. I stopped trying to comfort her when she woke, looking at us with fear and disgust. 

(words: 274)

Experimentation in the style of:

Edmund Gosse, Father and Son

            My mothers’ deterioration into the haze of extended morphine exposure had been so slow that, in my childhood, I had failed to recognise it. Her continual lapses in consciousness were made into a form of family joke – later in life I would realise this was probably as much for her benefit as it was for mine. However, during my eleventh year – the first of many spent in the uncomfortable embrace of the local Girls Grammar School – my Mother decided to exercise her strength of will, and escape the dreaded clutches of dependence.

            The gentle, sleepy, doting woman, who had, for many years, been my closest friend and defender against the strictures of my Father, began a week long struggle against her own body. She lay on the sofa in the living room and writhed, gasped, and cried. Much of her worse symptoms, I am told, she managed to hold at bay while her youngest child was present; much of the paranoia growing unbearable whilst the young girl was out of sight, especially whilst she was at the Girls School for the grammatically unchallenged. She would have terrible visions of the girl being stolen from her, or hurt in some unforgivable way; of her little girl in pain, lost forever.

            The week’s end saw the emergence of a new woman: The Mother.

This woman looked like my mother had, spoke with her voice, but moved with a purpose. The Mother was strict, unforgiving, and had the disadvantage of a strong memory, and the propensity to remember my crimes.

(words: 257)

Continuously discontinuous

There's so much I want to say... but none of it makes sense. None of it will come out.


Sometimes I lay next to you and the words run through my head. Words like 'good enough', 'eternally', and, of course, the dreaded 'love'. 
My jaw clamps tight on them, because my mind shows me your reaction - and it's never good.
Stiff disinterest. Awkward silences. Sadness.
All of the things to be expected from being given a sight into the true thoughts, the true life of what I am. Opening my heart isn't easy, and sometimes I think it might be impossible. 


Biting my tongue is an old habit. It comes from being told too much.
You let people open their pain to you, and it just keeps coming, and coming, and coming till you think you might break from being so filled with it.
The hardest part of bearing another's pain is knowing your own place in it. Often you hold their pain after you've not been there to prevent it from happening.


I'm nineteen, comforting my sister when her already over stretched jumper feels too tight around her throat; hearing her explain to someone else, in more detail this time, having the questions I didn't want answered explained in detail.


I'm just turned 20, and the boy I love pours out his need to die out into my own bleeding heart.


I'm 21 and I stop telling anyone but my closest friends what's wrong with me, or that it hurts. I'm scared of hurting anyone any more, just by sharing my problems.


I'm 22 and the only person I tell my weaknesses to lays next to me, and I see that he's already hurting so much from everyone else's hurts. He never lets it show, but it's there - hiding deep inside, where only a few of us get to see. I'd say only I see it, but I know it's not true. 
He thinks it's not even there, that because he's still okay the pain isn't there - but it doesn't work like that. Just because you bear something doesn't mean it goes away.


So I bite my tongue, and I don't even mean to.


Our friend in France lets his pain over the loss he suffered show, and it shocks me - not because I don't realise it's there, or because I don't expect him to show it - but because I dreamt of my lost brother last night and woke in tears. Even in my dreams now, I know when I see him it isn't real. That kinda hurts.
But I couldn't say anything at the time. Couldn't acknowledge that I understood to some extent the pain he was going through. Partly because I feel like if I do, it's trying to claim his pain as my own - if that makes sense? - and I don't want to.
You have to own your own pain. There's sympathy, which you need... but you also have to feel the personal-ness of your own pain. When it blends into someone else's hurt it gets all tinted, tainted, and you half miss the original. 
Maybe that's just me?


Maybe it's because of the feeling that your own experience is being brushed away when someone say's "Like this one time..." (do not finish that sentence in your head with 'at band camp' - PLEASE! I own a flute!! It's not RIGHT!!!). Sometimes it feels like instead of trying to relate to you, they just want an opening to talk about their own problem.


I never want people to think that about me. I never want to make someone feel that way - like they aren't important. Especially someone I love that much. 
The poem he wrote really was beautiful.
I wish he didn't hurt so much, of feel so alone. I hope he knows that we're here for him - no matter what. I hope it's enough.


My other friend blogged today about people complaining unnecessarily.
Now, anyone who reads my blogs knows: I'm a complainer.
Nothing is too big, or too small, to complain about. 


Nor is it ever too serious or trivial to joke about.


However, the kind of complaining he was describing is the sort that is ungrounded/ unsubstantial. 
I look back on the things I've complained about this week:

• Sexual abuse
• Emotional abuse
• Flatmates leaving a literal mountain of washing up in the sink
• Mental abuse
• Stupid mistakes
• Loosing people
• Unrequited love
• Missing people
• Being unhealthy/unhealthily overweight

I guess the washing up was trivial, and the stupid mistakes were my own fault... as is the overweight/unhealthy thing. 3 out of 9 isn't too bad I guess.
It kinda hits home sometimes that my issues actually are kinda real/serious.
I always figure they're just silly, and that I should be over them all... but then I consider what category they fall under, and it's like "Damn, that's actually messed up."


This blog has been one of the things that helped me realise (and work through) the deeper problems I've had this past... decade... along with my best friend (who is great at kicking me up the ass, or making me think, or being there for me when stuff is just poop). I've gone from thinking that I just fail at life, to thinking that maybe things just haven't been that great, to thinking that I can actually get past all of the stuff that's happened in my life.


Finally being able to say no has been the biggest confirmation of that. Breaking the habits, the circle, the thought patterns. It's given me the boost I needed to be ME again. Me without needing someone else.
This past year I've been able to be me as long as I had someone to hold my hand, to back me up. The year before I only felt like me if I had my best mate with me. Now, finally, I'm starting to be able to stand on my own two feet and say "no, it's okay - I can do it!" rather than "I might be able to do it... but... can you stick around... just in case?" or "I can do it if you stand behind me..."


The worst part is, I never even noticed it. I never noticed that I needed a safety net. Not until it was taken away.
I didn't realise I could do it, work it out, make it on my own; until the person who normally helped me turned their back and made me do it on my own. The shock itself was probably enough to change my life.
I've probably given him a hard time for doing it - because it hurt at the time - but, in all honesty, I should thank him. Falling without a safety net made me grab hold of the tight rope and pull myself back up, rather than crying into the net and then climbing all the way back up to walk it again. I'm not fully stood on it yet, I'm still kinda clinging on upside down. But hell! If I can make it to the other side like this - or even just to the next platform - I'll take living upside down for a while. It's worth it to know that I can do it myself.
Check back in a few years and I might be doing this entire trick upside down on a uni-cycle. Or I might have moved onto the trapeze... you never know. Anything is possible. The sky's the limit - and by the sky, I mean the atmosphere of the outer regions of space somewhere - way beyond the milky way.


Now, if I can just get my assignments done and in on time (ha, that'll be the day), I might actually be able to say that this life is back on track.




The only problem with not being stuck in my head any more is that I can finally see the world; and I'm worried about my friends again. Mostly my boys. They both seem so sad. I know I shouldn't want to fix things, but I really would give anything to make them happy. They're the first guys my age to be intimately close to me while still making me feel respected and (odd as this may sound) safe. I haven't felt that way since I was 14.
So when they feel sad, I want to just make the world a beautiful place for them again - rub the universe clean till it sparkles with happiness. 
(Excuse the odd imagery, I'm getting rather tired - I think it shows)


The hardest part is not being able to see them all the time. 
Well, I get to see Li a lot... but Mat is so far away. I just know that if we were all together neither of them would be so sad. It's so frustrating.
Why can we not always meet nice people who live really really close so that we can see them whenever? Why do the most amazing people have to live a million miles away (exaggeration ftw)? 
I felt this way over summer when my best friend was 4 hours and £96 away. The injustice of being wrenched away from the closest people you have because of funds, or study, or family obligations.... it's just the worst. It feels like if we were more 'grown-up' (read - not students) we'd be able to stay with the people we wanted to be with - rather than leave them to go back to our parents at the end of term. Rather than having to go to work in a different city. Rather than having to study in a different country.
We want to be together... so why can't we just stay together?


It feels like the biggest FAIL of this life. That the only people I make a true connection with - like, a lasting bond you never want to break - has to be stretched constantly thin.


I mean, my other, older best friend back from my home town - is ALWAYS too far away. We can't seem to get to spend time together any more than I can spend time with Mat. Yet, when we get back together, it's like the only thing that's changed is our individual stuff - our us is still there - still intact - just with less information about what's going on. 
I mean, we're not going to be able to say - hey, your eyebrow is weird still from where you burnt it yesterday on that stick that we set fire to - when you haven't seen them. You're not going to be able to discern those day to day changes in them - like a scratch that wasn't there last night... but the ease, the comfort, the wanting to share is still there. It's nice. 


I guess that's how things will be next year with Libor... 
I mean, it's not so bad I guess. We'll always be best friends in that sense. It'll just be hard not seeing him every day, and knowing everything that's going on. Not being the first person he rings when something is either on his mind, or happening. Not the person I invite to every little social outing (from going to the shops to massive organised nights out). Not the person who I make tea for... at his own house. Not the person who dances in my kitchen with me. Not the one who's always there, and always knows everything about me.


But hey ho. Got months left before that happens.
He seems to want to wean us off each other by decreasing our time together, our 'dependence' on each other... but I just want to spend every possible minute with him. Make these last months really count. Take advantage of every second that we're not miles and miles apart. 
I guess it's because I deal better with being thrown in the deep end - especially if I have good memories to hold onto during the splash and subsequent spluttering/dog paddling/ cursing at my bad diving. 
We shall see though.




There's words that I let slip from my mouth often and freely. Words like 'love'. People think it's because I don't value what that means - but it's not that. It's just that I love so freely and quickly and openly. 
But then you get how I feel about the closest friends I have... and words like 'love' just... they aren't enough. It's more than love. It's meta-love... it's macro-love... it's amour... it's adoration... 
There's probably a word for it, a perfect word. A word that encapsulates the overwhelming feeling of nearness and comfort, the willingness to do anything for them... the knowledge that they are the most important people in the world and you'd happily lop off an arm or leg just to make them smile when they're feeling down. The people who you can't say no to. The people who suggest something stupid, and you do it - because you know that, with them, it'll be amazing, and fun, and worth it. They're your comrades in arms, your chuckle buddies, your family, your heart and soul... 
The word love doesn't really mean that enough. Maybe I'm not explaining it right. I don't know. I just know that it feels bigger than the universe - so it must be bigger than love.




I talk about love a lot really.
It's the one thing in my life that guides every action (especially when I'm not lost in the darkness). It's the thing that makes my world turn - gravity wouldn't exist without love. Gravity is just the world wanting to give everything a big hug, and keep it near. We rotate round the sun because it's caught in a continual spin - holding our hands just tight enough to stop us flying away - because it's so happy to see us. 
Love is what makes babies. It's what makes people hold doors open. What makes people become doctors, nurses, policemen, firemen, mothers, fathers, lawyers, businessmen... even if it's only love of money, love of self... it's still love. 
Loving other people is the best kind of love. It's the sort that makes the world a better place. It's what makes a smile worth a million picture (which are each worth a thousand words). 
Love just IS amazing. 
It makes life what it is.


When I say the words "I love you." I often mean it in this universal way - the way that makes you part of my world, part of the great dance of life that means I want to hold your hand and dance with you. 
Sometimes, when I say "I love you" I actually mean "I'm in-love with you" - as in, yours is the hand I want to hold forever in this dance we call life.
But it's up to you to work out which times are which!!


I'm going to go and finish my assignment now. It's the one where I write autobiographies in different styles - so I'll probably copy and paste them into the next blog. I was going to do it for this one, but my fingers kinda rattled out a lot of thoughts before I got round to it.


For now, I miss Veesham lots. I miss Mathieu too. I love that Libor has started doing long goodbyes again (feels like first year again!!). I can't wait to celebrate in green. Life is good - even though it hurts sometimes. 


I hope your life isn't hurting too much right now.
Know that I'm always here if you need me.
I love you.




Blessed Be xx