by Ann Regentin
(10/15/03)
My boyfriend doesn't kiss.
When we first started going out, he struck me as almost too gentlemanly. He didn't try to kiss me once. For a while, I though he just wanted to be friends, which would have been a tremendous disappointment. But one day, he took me aside.
"I have to tell you something," he said.
Oh God, he's gay! I thought. "What?" I asked.
He looked down at the concrete. "I've been thinking..." he stammered, his accent thickening. "I've been wondering...well...if you're expecting me to kiss you." His face reddened.
So did mine. "Yes," I said. "But if you don't want to...I mean...if you just want to stay friends..." I wasn't any more articulate than he was.
"No," he said quickly. "It's just that...well...where I come from, we don't kiss. Not the way you do anyway. Except for the prostitutes who cater to Western men. And teenagers, or people who are into Western television and movies, but my family was fairly conservative, and I just never learned it."
I was dumbfounded. "What?"
"We don't kiss."
No kissing? "What do you do?"
He looked at me. "Do you want to find out?"
"Yes," I said, meeting those chocolate eyes, my heart fluttering.
He bent his head as though he were going to kiss me, but instead, he pressed his nose against mine and simply inhaled. It was strange. His lips touched my skin, but it wasn't a kiss. It wasn't quite right, but it wasn't wrong, either. I found my eyes closing and I realized that we were exchanging breath instead of saliva and I was tasting him
somewhere in the back of my mouth. His hands went to my waist and my arms went around his neck. It was maddening, strangely erotic, and my tongue became anxious, a caged animal wanting to explore. I swallowed, reining
it in, but did not close my mouth.
After a while, he stopped and rested his cheek against mine. We were both breathing hard and I could feel his heart pounding. I ran my hand up over his face, pressed him harder against me, tangling my fingers in his hair.
"Well?" he asked in my ear.
"That'll work," I said. My whole body felt swollen with desire.
We went to his place. It was minimally furnished and not really decorated. He had brought very little with him to the States, only a few bits and pieces, and he saw no need to accumulate more. His books fascinated me. Only a handful were in English. He fed me a bowl full of spiced rice and some strong tea. Then he took me to bed.
He slept on a futon that was covered with a beautifully woven blanket.
"I brought that from home," he said when he saw me looking at it.
"It's lovely," I said, running my hand over it.
He sat down and pulled me down next to him. "Not nearly as lovely as you are." His eyes held mine and he caressed my face with his hands.
"I don't know what to do," I said, and it was true. I didn't know where to start.
"Touch me," he said. I did. I ran my hands over his chest, feeling the flex of muscle under his shirt and the beat of his heart. I could hear his breathing and my own and we watched each other constantly. I began to realize that kissing can be a distraction but at the same time, I could feel my lips swelling with a need to touch him. Oh, God, this would not be easy!
"Can I kiss you other places?" I asked.
"Just not my face," he said, "and not wet."
That was fine. My mouth was dry, all moisture in my body was migrating south. I pressed my lips to the base of his throat and found myself inhaling the way he had when he touched his nose to mine. His skin smelled musky and faintly spicy, like his rice, the scent lingering somewhere between my mouth and nose. It was addictive, elusive, I had to
breathe just right to do it. "Is that all right?"
"Yes," he said, his voice low and sweet. "Yes, that's fine."
It was slow, languid. Normally, I'd be madly making out, but without that, things were put on an entirely different plane. An intensity was missing, but at the same time, something else had been added, a new level of sensitivity. I was aware of every touch, every sound. When I slid my hands under his shirt, I could feel the vibration of his low moan. When his hands covered my breasts, the heat of them was so intense it made me tremble. My lips were so swollen I thought they would crack, but when I held them against his skin, all I could do was breathe. It was no longer that I didn't want to offend him or turn him off. It was that it was the only thing left to do.
He didn't use his mouth at all, but he was an expert with his hands. He divested me of my jeans with little fumbling and when his fingers slid over my cunt, he knew exactly what he was looking for. He held his face very close to mine as he explored, finding out who I was, listening for the changes in pitch and breath that would tell him what I especially liked. Air mingled in our noses and mouths, quickening ripening. His cock was firm and uncut, and when I pulled his foreskin all the way back, he dropped his forehead to mine and exhaled hard, and I found myself drinking it in, just tasting him, only just. Yes. Yes, this would work, this would work. Every nerve in my body stretched toward him, threatening to break, my skin alive with touch and need.
He had three fingers inside of me and he rubbed his face against my body like a cat. I found myself feeling for the touch of his lips, needing it, needing to know something, something was still missing but other things, other things were even more present. His cheek was remarkably smooth given the time of day. His hair, straight and black, was soft and
tickled a bit. The hair on his legs was almost but not quite scratchy against my newly shaven ones and his fingers fed me just enough to keep me alive. His cock was hot and hard with skin as soft as satin, his balls balanced perfectly in my palm, and at the slightest hint that I might move my hand away, he made a low, unhappy sound deep in his throat.
I put the condom on him and then he slid inside. I love that first sensation of being opened. No matter how many fingers I've had in me, it's still a whole, new thing. He wasn't particularly huge, but he was just right, exactly right, finding every nook and cranny and filling them all. I was desperate to kiss him and he seemed to know it because he kept his face away from me. He fucked me slowly and watched me take him, watched me go gradually mad. He twisted his body against me, grinding himself into me. My mouth was still dry, I wanted water, no, this was unendurable. I wanted to thank him somehow for what he was doing to me. I reached up and touched his face lightly with my fingertips, his cheek, his chin, his nose, his lips. And then I started to come, the first time I had ever come like that, without someone
licking or fingering my clit. I pulled at him, needing something to hold on to. His lips were no longer in danger and he seemed to know it. He let his full weight rest on me as I started to sob, my face buried in his neck, drowning to death from the groin outward. Somewhere in it, I felt the muscles of his stomach contract, felt him press himself hard against me, and this time the vibrations of his moans traveling through my whole body.
Afterward, he smiled down at me and I touched his face again, running my fingers lightly over his features. He chuckled.
"I know what you're doing," he said.
"What?" I asked.
"You're kissing me."
I put my hand down. "I'm sorry."
He picked it back up and pressed it to his cheek. "No," he said. "It's the act I don't like, not the thought." He brought his face close to mine again, his own kiss, rubbing his nose over my nose and cheek, his lips lightly brushing my skin. "You see?"
"Yes, I do see," I said. "It's strange."
His eyes clouded. "I know. Can you do this? I mean, can you be with me and not kiss me?"
No kissing. No kiss hello or goodbye. No kiss as a prelude to other things. No kiss just because, just for the hell of it. No stolen kisses in public places. No making out in front of the television. No tangling tongues, no tasting his mouth. Come to think of it, it was a bit unsanitary, but then so is the rest of sex. I was sticky between my legs and the hair on his balls was damp from my juices. The only reason it wasn't worse had found a home in the garbage under his bedside table.
"Have you ever tried it?" I asked.
He made a face. "I'm sorry. I just don't like it."
I had never thought of kissing as an acquired taste. I always thought it was instinctive. I ran my fingers over his face, thinking. In some respects, it was hell not being able to kiss him but then again, I had not come that hard in I wasn't sure how long. Did I like him enough to work around this? Would the frustration be too much? He was watching, worried. I nodded.
He put his finger over my mouth, warning me to keep it closed. Then he bent down and brushed his lips over mine, very lightly, very quickly.
"That's the best I can do," he said apologetically.
"That's all right," I said. I reached for his hand and pressed it hard against my mouth, trapping my lips between his knuckles and my teeth, getting the pressure I needed. "I think it will work."
