The US government needs to slap a warning label on kisses that touch our big, warm hearts just as much as they touch our big (for some), warm pepas. Just like smoking cigarettes is hazardous to our lungs, these smooches can lead to dizziness, rapid heart palpitations and the ultimate collapse of our reason and logic. You open your moist, desiring mouth and BANG! there go your clothes. You gently suck on his lower lip and BANG! there goes his pene in your pepa. Then you BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! and nine months later, out comes a baby!
I know these perils first hand. Sure, I’m still childless, but boy have my panties comes off quicker than you can say “Child support!” So you can imagine my fear after experiencing a first kiss like no other. You can imagine how often I checked my blood pressure, pumping the cuff obsessively, after dreaming of Mr. G for days. I lay in bed, lips puckered, experiencing the kiss all over again, and only stopped when my momma opened my bedroom door and thought I was having a stroke. But then things got a little more dangerous. Mr. G and I set a date to “talk” and sort out our feelings. He picked me up at home in his small cacharita of a car. The one with the difficult door handle I couldn’t open that night. The one that led to all this.
Mr. G was outside, standing in front of his car door, and I could tell he was eager and even a little nervous. Soon, he walked me over to the passenger side and opened the door before sliding into the drivers seat. He asked if I was hungry, but my nerves had killed my appetite. Drinks would do just fine, I said. And so we found a little spot on 181st and Fort Washington.
We were immediately seated. Mr. G scanned the menu while I asked for White Wine Sangria. Eventually, he ordered a sandwich and asked for the bread to be toasted.
“I hate cold bread,” he told me after the waiter left.
“Me too. Has to be toasted,” I said with a chuckle. We even had silly things in common, I thought.
Soon, the conversation turned to his relationship. Mr. G revealed his unhappiness with his girlfriend, yet his reluctance to be the one to leave as to not be the “bad guy”. He also told me they had begun couple’s therapy.
“If you’re going to therapy, why are you here with me?” I asked bluntly.
Mr. G nodded, as if admitting to how warped he truly was. “Because I know its not going to work…I’m just doing it for her,” he answered seriously. Then Mr. G turned the tables and asked, “You know my situation. Why are you here with me?” I paused, searching for an answer that would deem me an intelligent investment instead of a risky one that would jump off a cliff with a ciggie hanging from her lip.
“I was shamefully curious,” I replied with a smile. Mr. G beamed and I knew it was a reply he not only understood but also appreciated. From there, there was no holding back. Mr. G leaned in, his forearms resting on the table, and asked, “So…what did you think of our kiss?”
I sat in silence, unsure of how to proceed. Should I be honest and tell him I was floored? Should I reveal my longing and describe my sleepless nights? No, that would be foolish. That would be like sniffing the nicotine straight from the cigarettes. So instead I replied,“You’re the one with the girlfriend. Why don’t you tell me what you felt?”
Mr. G tilted his head and nodded. I could feel my pulse on the vein of my neck; hear it beating loudly in my ears.
“I don’t think I’ve experienced a kiss like that before. Maybe five years ago..if ever,” he declared.
“But you’ve been with your girlfriend for four years,” I stated matter-a-factly.
“Exactly. I’ve never cheated on my girlfriend before but I know when we kissed I did. Because I felt something,” he replied solemnly.
Could it be? I thought. Was it possible that Mr. G had felt the same intensity, the same emotional connection that I had? I leaned in and locked eyes with the man I felt was my soulmate. Mr. G returned my gaze, patiently waiting for my response.
“It wasn’t just a kiss,” I began. “There was emotion and passion and more than just sexual attraction. I was speechless…” I finished.
And then the emergency alarm blared. No, not really, but it should have, along with ambulance sirens and fire trucks horns and the beeps of a heartbeat monitor. That way when Mr. G asked if I wanted to go away with him that weekend I would have said no. But there was no warning label. No black and white skull plastered on Mr. G’s tender eyes or on our second emotional kiss. There was only the instant gratification and euphoric feeling I experienced when pressing my lips against his and fantasying about our romantic weekend together. So instead of saying no, I said yes. I took the plunge, sucked on three cigarettes simultaneously, and drank an entire bottle of Bacardi. I jumped over the cliff and hoped to survive the fall.