Spitty Kisses

I’ve always been picky about kissing. Maybe everyone is. Everyone should be. Kissing is one of the chief pleasures of life, and it’s that initial portal into the larger realm of physical love. I figure if someone is a bad kisser, there’s probably no point in taking things any further.

“Bad kisser” is a relative term, of course. Where kissing is concerned, one person’s sucky might just be someone else’s sublime. But for me, a really lovely, spine-tingling, knee-weakening kiss is all about restraint, at least initially. In my book, lunging at someone with your tongue outstretched is no way to start things off. I prefer to begin a kiss with a relatively light touch of the lips, and no spit. Warm and soft, yes. Moist, yes. Wet, no. That soft kiss can quickly evolve into a wet, tonguey kiss, but it’s best if this occurs through a process of opening and exploration rather than all-at-once. Once the kiss is underway and the tongue play has begun, things can get really wet and athletic, and this can go on and on ‘til the jaw begins to ache pleasantly. But to start things off, I’ve got to have that enticing restraint. I think I can safely say that ever since my kissing career began back in high school, any first kiss that began with slobbering or the tongue-lunge move was also the last kiss.

Maybe my aversion to being slobbered on accounts for my preference for cats over dogs. Dogs are great in many ways, but they are so licky, and their licks are so spitty. God save me from getting kissed by a dog. I don’t even really like dog spit on my hand, but on my face, or – Heaven forfend – my mouth? Eeech. Most cats are not inclined to lick you, and I’ve never met a cat who would lick a human mouth (smart beasts). If a cat ever does happen to lick you, they have those sandpapery tongues that leave behind almost no spit. That’s my kind of pet.

I’ve recently discovered one context where I don’t mind slobber, and that is baby kisses. Perhaps not kisses from any baby, but I love kisses from my baby, icky and sloppy as they are.

Baby O. was not a big kisser. He was a huggy, cuddley baby, but tended to squinch up his face in dismay when kissed on the face. I actually went on a campaign to get him to like kisses by making a practice of kissing him right before he nursed.

Baby Roo loves kisses. I can kiss her face over and over, left and right and up and down, cheeks and nose and ears and eyes, and she will smile bigger and bigger and squeal with delight. And she gives kisses, too. You parents out there know the kind: big, spitty, open-mouthed kisses. And during these drooly days of teething, she has more spit than she knows what to do with, so her kisses usually leave a trickley trail. When she plants a big, spitty kiss on my cheek or my chin, I shudder with a combination of disgust and delight. I love Roo’s kisses because she’s so sweet and cute and happy and I love her so much, and somehow the fact that her kisses are also sloppy and gross adds to the thrill of them. Maybe like a haunted house or a roller coaster. I do wipe the spit off when she detaches, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it while the kiss lasts.




Anyway, she mostly keeps her tongue to herself, and that’s about all I can ask of such a kissing novice.