Pooner Diaries: Kiss

[Birdboy 10482]

There's this old song that's been running through my mind lately. It's one that I first heard as a very young man, so many years ago, on the crackly push-button AM radio in my first old beat-up car.

 

Does he love me I want to know

How can I tell if he loves me so

Is it in his eyes?

Oh no! You'll be deceived

Is it in his sighs?

Oh no! He'll make believe

If you want to know if he loves you so

It's in his kiss

That's where it is

 

I smile a wry smile when I hear it. I can sing all the verses by memory, though it's just not cool in my peer group to sing Arethra. At least out loud, in public. So I hum it under my breath, tap my toes just a tiny bit, not so anyone can notice.

 

It's not just nostalgia for my misspent youth that's made me think of this song these days. It's something I read, about my favorite lady. He wrote that he had a grand old time, and he went on and on about what a wonderful kisser she was.

 

Reading that halted me in my virtual tracks. I've never been one to be jealous about something someone else has gotten that I hadn't. There's no point, you know. Because I have been that guy too every once in a long while, getting something that I know others don't usually get. So no harm, no foul. He's a lucky man.

 

It was nostalgia of another kind that tweaked this particular earworm. It was remembering that she was a great kisser once, at least for me. We'd spend what seemed like hours in these kisses, and I loved every single second of them.

 

That feels like a long time ago. The last time I saw her, she pulled away from my kiss, and I just stopped trying. The first time it happened, I wondered if I hadn't brushed my teeth properly, or perhaps had a little reminder of something I'd eaten. She did it again the next time, after I took pains to make myself fresh. It happened again and again, and I was finally left with the inescapable conclusion that it was just me.

 

I don't think that her kiss means she doesn't love me. I smile to type that. I know of the man she loves, and I'm definitely not him. But it was a reasonable facsimile for a time. I saw her eyes widen when we would meet. I saw her smile broaden, as we embraced and our tongues danced delicately. It was a sublime delight. But hasn't been like that in a while.

 

Perhaps that's the lifeblood of this hobby. To sample the best that these ladies have to offer, to leave starstruck. But more importantly, to move on, to sample the sweet nectar of the next flower. I have been a longtime client, but only very rarely. More often these things so often too soon fade away to a pale shadow of the excitement that we once felt. Because to be otherwise, means that the fantasy that I've purchased and that she's worked so hard to create has become something else. Something more real, something more ethereal. And definitely something much more rare, in this business of ours.

 

I know it's time to move on. I'll only let myself have this moment of that sense of loss before I find that next object of my anticipation and excitement. I'll search for that kiss that stops time, makes me forget that there's anything except the two of us. It's what I yearn for.

 

Because that's where it is.

[Midnite-Energies 110563]

I've always loved the way you write and express. Thank you!