I heard about The Science of Kissing: What Our Lips Are Telling Us a bit ago, and here it is now, arriving in our bookstores, or traveling all sci-fi style to our e-readers, just in time for Valentine’s Day. So if you haven’t yet purchased your sweetie something as previously recommended here, you might want to pick up a copy of The Science of Kissing, so your significant other can point out not only all the things you’re doing wrong with each kiss, but also cite scientific research to back it up.
I can’t really comment about the science of kissing, but as a long time practitioner, I feel qualified to comment on the art of kissing. Or rather, I feel qualified to comment as the victim of much artless kissing.
My first encounter with really bad kissing was with the Reverse CPR Kisser, a guy who inhaled deeply mid lip-lock, sucking all the air out of my lungs, leaving me blue and gasping, and frantically pushing him away before I passed out from a lack of oxygen. For some reason, I actually dated this guy for quite awhile. Maybe it had something to do with a perversion I didn’t know I had, and didn’t particularly enjoy: erotic asphyxiation.
Then there was the Snake Kisser, who flicked his tongue in and out of my mouth rapidly. I half expected him to hiss before swallowing me whole, creating a five foot nine lump in his throat slowly moving down his digestive tract.
Try as I might, I can’t forget the Chin Licker. He ended each passionate kiss with a swipe of my chin with his tongue, as a finishing touch. I tried to mask the look of horror and and disgust on my face as I wondered where the hell he learned that move. Surely it was the result of some prank a frat brother had played on him: “And you know what women really like? Chin licking. Drives them wild. You’ll be in her pants in no time.”
Reconsidering all this, I wonder if I should have said something to these guys, offered them advice, set them on the Path to Better Kissing. Sometimes late at night, when the house is quiet and all I hear is the cat getting up and resettling herself at the foot of our bed, I wonder if some guy is out there telling jokes about the way I kissed. Maybe I’m the punchline of his blog.
In the end, who knows how we learn to kiss “right” (if we ever do)? Maybe we just keep going on, we keep kissing until we find someone who likes being breathless, or flicked, or licked.