In this humble writer's opinion, humans are not born good kissers. Kissing is an art that is learned, and one often requiring lots of practice, but learning the correct techniques is well worth the time and trouble. It takes two to create a truly wonderful kiss. Both parties must give their all. As a bonus, truly good kissing can result in a high almost as good as making love.

            After learning to kiss well during my teens, I developed a passion for a truly wonderful kiss. To me, a good kiss is the embodiment of love, oft telling more about a person than any other singular action.

            As a single woman these past seven years, I’ve had more than my fair share of kisses. There are many men who can curl my toes with a kiss, but much to my dismay, there are almost just as many men who seem to be totally clueless. I can only reason some girl or woman told them they were a good kisser at some point in their past, and that girl or woman didn’t have a clue about good kissing. Thus, these men have gone through their lives believing they knew how to kiss. Oh, what a waste of good lips and passion!

            In the first two stories, you’ll become acquainted with how I became so obsessed with this enjoyable encounter. In the latter stories, you’ll read about a few of the worst kissers I’ve come across, men I’ve actually nicknamed for their lack of kissing skills.
 

Happy kissing,

Wanda L. Harrell

FIRST KISS
 

A first kiss is usually memorable, no matter how good or bad the experience. My first kiss was memorable, but that kiss that took place the last day of eighth grade was far from a positive incident. My sweetheart and I were two of the last people to leave school that day. Just as we were about to exit the building, he bent over to kiss me goodbye. I was caught totally off guard. Not only was I self-conscious, to add insult to injury, I was completely mortified when he emphatically announced, “Your lips are cold."

            On the ride home that afternoon, I could think of nothing else. Instead of daydreaming about the kiss, his four words kept playing over and over in my head. I made up my mind, then and there, to do something about it. That summer was busy. I took swimming lessons and many bike rides with a neighbor girlfriend. But most importantly, I practiced kissing. I kissed my hand hundreds of times with my bed pillow running a close second. I practiced and practiced and practiced. I never tired of practicing. Never again did I want to hear those four wretched words. Never!

            By the time school started again, I was ready for him. We didn’t have any classes together, but we did have the same lunch period. He carried my books as he walked me to the first class after lunch. We sort of dawdled, lingering in the hallway for that extra second or two to steal a kiss, and never again did he say those four words.
 

SLOW DANCING JOE
 

            My parents were strict, not allowing me to date until I was sixteen. If my birthday had fallen between January and June, that wouldn’t have been a problem. However, with a birthday in late December, I was the second youngest of my graduating class. That meant all the other girls had been dating some time before I reached my sixteenth birthday. In a school with 99 seniors, the boys worth having were already taken, so I really didn’t date until after high school.

            Compensating somewhat for not dating, my parents allowed me to have parties in our large basement recreation room. The focal point of the room was a full brick wall and fireplace and on the far side. It was a perfect place for gatherings. The only promise I had to make to my parents was to wax the 30x15 tile floor before and after the parties. So, on hands and knees, I fulfilled my promise to them before and after the first party, my 17^th birthday in December of 1965. Everyone who was invited attended, and a few who were not invited attended. Yes, my first party came complete with party crashers.

            Many of my guests were already going steady, but since I had not yet dated, I was alone. With that fact ever present in mind, I focused my energies on my guests. Usually a quick study in most anything I attempted, my hostess skills developed rapidly. I learned to mingle with my school friends, offering them party fare, talking, laughing and, in general, making them feel welcome. Southern hospitality remained alive and well in the Harrell household.

            Among those attending was a gifted artist, a boy named Joe who had a semi-bad reputation around school, but was invited because he was always every inch the gentleman with me. When the lights were lowered for slow dances, he never failed to ask me to dance. Slow Dancing Joe and I swayed about the room to the tunes of The Drifters, Johnny Tillotson, Bobby Vinton, The Crystals and The Supremes. At each and every party I gave those last 5 months of high school, Joe was always there, and always asking me to slow dance with him. Extremely naïve in those days, I didn’t think anything about it when we not only slow danced; we kissed, slowly and passionately.

            I learned quickly from waxing that huge floor before and after that first party, that it was much easier to just ask the kids to remove their shoes for a sort of sock hop. But it took longer for me to realize something else. Slow Dancing Joe most likely had a crush on me.

            Many times over the years, even during my marriages, comments were made about my kissing skills. Without fail, I always gave credit where credit was due, to the embarrassing first kiss and kisses from slow dancing Joe. A few years ago, when I was dating an attorney, he said, “If you ever get in touch with Joe, tell him thank you from me and the other men who’ve been in your life.” I thought the remark was sweet, but dismissed it.

            However, a couple of months later, the sun rose one morning, like all other mornings, but that day would be different. It was the day I launched a search for Slow Dancing Joe. After several calls to people I knew in Tennessee, I located him in Alexandria, Virginia, where he lived with his wife and three children. When he answered the phone, I said, “Joe, this is a voice from your past.”

            Silent for a moment, he asked, “And who is this?”

            “Wanda Harrell from high school,” I replied.

            His voice conveyed happiness and puzzlement at the same time. It was then I announced my reason for calling. “Joe, on behalf of the men in my life, I and they wanted to thank you for teaching me to kiss.”

            Across 900 miles, I could feel his face redden to a scarlet as he stumbled about for a response. Finally, he said, “Well, thank you, Wanda.”

            I explained what had transpired over the years, and told him most sincerely that I, and the men I’d dated or married, genuinely appreciated his contribution to my life. After reminiscing for a few minutes, we discussed the present. When we ended our conversation, he thanked me over and over for taking time to call.

            Slow Dancing Joe gave me much more than a dance partner all those years ago, he taught me how to kiss, and how to do it tenderly with passion and heart.

 

HOOVER
 

Two years ago, a bilingual world traveler and military secret agent persisted in asking me out. After several months of perseverance on his part, I finally acquiesced by accepting his invitation for lunch.

            He arrived that sunny October afternoon in a very shiny and very expensive black sports car. In his hands, he carried the largest bouquet of autumn flowers I’d ever seen. Lunch was delicious, but the conversation was not as pleasing. To me, conversation is much more enjoyable when it flows in both directions, but our conversation was more of a one-way street. His secretive nature and the habit of asking questions, revealing almost nothing about his person, most likely came from his work. Quite frankly, it was not a redeeming quality in a date.

            On the ride back to my condo, I was alerted when he remarked, “I feel as if I’ve known you all my life.” No way on earth could he feel that he’d known me all his life in the time span of one lunch. That first date line must rank up at the top of list with the notorious 80s pick up lines dealing with your astrological sign.

            During the twenty-minute drive, something was mentioned about a file I had on my computer, so I politely offered to print it out for him. Brought up with Southern social graces and hospitality, when we arrived at my door, I asked him in. Immediately, I went to the computer to print out the requested papers.

            Just as I turned to tell him it would only be another minute, he pulled me into an embrace, and kissed me. Well, it wasn’t a kiss; his mouth was more of a suction apparatus. The so-called kiss was painful, and practically brought tears to my eyes. I pulled away as quickly as possible, using the printing as a ruse to divert his attention. When I turned to hand him the papers, he asked to see me again, but before I could answer, he quickly moved in for another of his kiss/sucks. In my youth, I heard kissing referred to as sucking face, but never did I believe anyone did such a horrid thing. I was wrong. This man did. As quickly as possible, I pulled away again. I took a deep gulp and breath to gather courage before saying, “You need to go home.”

            As if he were doing me a favor, he replied, “Oh, I don’t have to leave yet.”

            Moving in the direction of the front door, I responded, “Yes, you do. You need to go home now.”

            The look on his face was one of absolute bewilderment as I opened the door. With a sweet tone to my voice and my hand on the doorknob, I repeated, “You need to go home now.”

            As he crossed the threshold to go outside, I thanked him for the lunch and gorgeous flowers. Finally safe from the torturer, and with the door shut behind me, I stood there for several minutes, leaning against the door and shaking my head. With a sore tongue, I stated out loud to an empty room, “That poor oblivious man must have thought I was a piece of lint and he was a vacuum cleaner.” Hence, the name of Hoover came to mind for this particular wretched kiss.
 

REFRIGERATOR
 

            As a writer, one would think a date with a publisher would be the absolute epitome of dates. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!

            A couple years ago, I agreed to have lunch with a local publisher at a restaurant in Jacksonville. At first glance, he was attractive. The first big mistake was sitting in the bar area of the restaurant where there was a TV. A decent conversation was next to impossible, because he kept watching the football game between bites of his food. Annoyed, I silently said, “Well, the lunch isn’t all that bad.”

            When he walked me to my car, he asked to see me again. I was hesitating, floundering around for a nice way to say no when he leaned over to kiss me. In all my fifty odd years, I’d never had a kiss like that one. It was hard, cold and flat. There was absolutely no tenderness or passion conveyed with his kiss. Fortunately, I was able to bid him adieu, get in my car and leave before he asked for another date.

            He called several times after that, but thanks to Caller ID, I avoided his calls. He also sent a couple of e-mail notes, but I didn’t reply. For some reason, I was concerned about hurting his feelings, but when I think about it, his kiss conveyed he had very little feeling, if any at all. I could have gotten as much passion from kissing my refrigerator, a surface that is hard, cold and flat. Hence the name the Refrigerator kisser came into being.

GRAND CANYON 
 

            Awhile back, I met a man who was tall, intelligent and good-looking. He had decent conversational skills, and was quite pleasant to be around. With nice full lips, my hopes were high for a good kiss. I was wrong.

            We were seated on the sofa, just talking about life in general, when he leaned over to kiss me. With the kissing experiences I’ve had, I really thought I couldn’t be surprised, but I was wrong, again.

            A French kiss is wonderful if it’s carried out correctly, but what he did was not a French kiss. As a matter of fact, I don’t know what it was, or if there is a name for it. He quickly clamped his mouth over mine. My lips were together and inside this cavern, his mouth, seeking his lips, but there was nothing for them to find, just an open space, the Grand Canyon.

            Annoyed, but thinking he might be worth a little time to train, I pulled back from the horrid encounter to gently hold his lips between my fingers. I softly said, “Now, just close your eyes and enjoy.” I tenderly ran a finger from my other hand gently over his lips, tracing the lip line and just barely touching them. Then, while still holding his lips, I kissed him ever so softly, lightly touching his lips with the very tip of my tongue. When I pulled back, he said, “Oh, my word! Wanda, that was the most exciting kiss I’ve ever had. No one has ever kissed me like that.”

            My hopes zoomed, feeling maybe he was learning. I quietly explained a good kiss is a passionate endeavor, and should be achieved with grace and flair.

            He asked for another date. I felt he might be worth one more try. Every single time we spoke over the next few days, he always mentioned the kiss I gave him, so my hopes ran high for the next date. Lo and behold, when he arrived that evening, he came at me with the Grand Canyon kiss again. I pulled away as quickly as possible. Then, his eyes lit up when he mentioned the kiss I’d given him a few nights before, but he didn’t seem to get my point. So, I gave it another try. Sadly, he still didn’t get it. Without saying in so many words, he seemed to feel his kiss was good, although admitting mine was better.

            Totally exasperated, I tried to enjoy those last hours with him, full well knowing I’d never agree to go out with him again. From time to time, I wonder if he ever thinks of my kisses when he goes out with another lady, and if has ever refined his Grand Canyon kissing technique.