Just a Kiss


“Let’s see if we can kiss”.

She said it in a way that I can’t easily describe. Not playful. Not sexual. But also not just “businesslike” or “matter of fact”. It was somehow in between all of those. Interested in a naughty way. But no naughty twinkle in her eye. Not clinical, but truly a question: “Let’s see if we can kiss” – meaning “Let’s take the next step. Step over a line. And see if you like my kiss and I like yours – to see if we want to continue – or not.”


We met via Tinder. The app on smartphones that lets people view “persons of possible interest” and instantaneously “swipe left” to dismiss them or “swipe right” to indicate interest.

Yes, it’s been argued that the app is vapid and too dependent on pure appearance, but I had been looking for company from the opposite sex (as is my preference) and had found lots of other “match” websites which all seemed to be filled only with women who were looking for their Prince Charming. Their “One True Love Forever” – despite the fact that most of them had never had a relationship which lasted more than a few years – and broke up over differences in sexual appetite. Nevermind that, they were all still believing the Cinderella story that they would find their Soulmate: the man who desperately wanted them – and only them – forever and ever – but who was vibrant and active and not at all boring. And they definitely actively rejected any “player” – any man just looking for (dramatic music to emphasize the awful word) “a hook-up”.

So I had loaded Tinder because it explicitly used GPS locations to help people find people who were geographically close by – with the implication (at least to me) that the intention was … hook-ups. Right now.

Despite my impressions, I found that the majority of Tinder-ladies were still looking for their “OTLF” (One True Love Forever) and politely, but firmly, discarded me once they found out that I was interested in just some non-committed fun. That means that they liked how I looked – they had “swiped right” on my photos, but hadn’t read my description which clearly stated that I was NOT available for any kind of relationship – long-term or otherwise. I was always honest in my communications, so found myself with a growing pile of potential partners who had discarded me.

With a couple of weeks of discards in my Tinder box, I was about to give up and conclude that my understanding of Tinder was wrong.


Then I “matched” with Kimberly.

She was almost exactly the same age as me – which I counted as a positive: someone who had a better chance of having shared some of my life experiences – giving us some common ground, but she also had a free spirit aura to her which was very-much NOT my life experience – so there seemed to be valuable room to cross-pollinate.

Given my experience on Tinder, my first contact made it clear that I was not looking for a LIFE PARTNER and I was quite surprised – and pleased – to find her very understanding and accepting. Not a furtive, smirking, acceptance, but what I think I’d been looking for: someone who could enjoy naughty / sensual company for its own sake.

We texted for a bit to get an initial feel, then she texted me her phone number. Gee! Somebody in the world still actually talks on the phone! Quel surprise!

I clumsily figured out how to use my phone – as a phone – and called.

I clearly didn’t know what to expect. Perhaps someone to berate me for pendik sınırsız escort being vapid. Perhaps someone flaky and Fatal Attraction. From her photos, she looked vaguely foreign. Attractive without being the next supermodel – and slightly exotic – so I expected an accent. French maybe. Or Slavic.

She answered immediately with a comfortable, unaccented “hi”. One word, but it made me feel real and happy and comfortable.

We talked for almost an hour. Two total strangers comparing notes on life, attitudes, pets, pet care, herbal remedies, the importance of kissing, and nothing-at-all. It was comfortable and easy. Not “trying to make conversation” – just easily talking. And with no hope or expectation of anything but a conversation that night.

As the hour passed, she finally said that she needed to get to bed, so she needed to go. I assured her that I wouldn’t contact her: wouldn’t bother her – that I wanted to “see” her again, but that if she wanted to see me, that she would have to contact me.

And we smiled, and hung up the phone, and I smiled again. And just sat for awhile doing nothing but gently smiling.


A week went by. I wasn’t surprised that I hadn’t heard from her. Everybody is busy. Everybody has things that they must do. I was hoping that I was something that Kimberly wanted to do. But I waited.

Until the weekend. Until I had a weekend with pretty-much nothing on my calendar. And I thought of her, so I sent a text. Just one line: “I know I promised not to contact you, but I’m free and if you are, too, please consider spending some time with me”.

She texted back immediately and said: “Let’s meet. Right now.”

My jaw dropped – though it was what I’d been hoping for – and she sent her phone number again, so I called and again heard her voice. Her “like a warm kitten on your lap” comfortable voice. And she specified a Starbux to meet at. In one hour.

I raced thru trying to prepare, but didn’t have time to do much other than race out of the house and put the meeting address in GPS – realizing that I was NOT dressed to impress: wearing a hoodie sweatshirt (at least I had the hood down) and cargo pants “topped” with sneakers. As I drove, I berated myself for not dressing up, but then told myself “I need to be myself. If that doesn’t work, then this isn’t going to work anyway.”

And I thought about how I shouldn’t think about “what I was going to do when I met her” since I’d probably overthink it and it would go badly.

And then I thought about “what I was going to do when I met her”. Sigh. OCD is an ugly thing sometimes.


Traffic cooperated and I pulled into the parking lot exactly on time, then my phone “dinged” and I had to deal with a couple of emails and alerts – figuring that I didn’t want anything eating at my brain when I met her.

About 2 minutes after our agreed meeting time, I slid out of my car and considered how to make my entrance, but then just looked up and recognized her – sitting in her car – listening to the radio. I walked toward her and smiled as she looked up and recognized me – and all of my plans for “how to meet” just got replaced with reality.

No big drama. Just smiles and small talk.

I held the door for her to get out of her car – then to enter the Starbux, and we quickly fell into a comfortable conversation as we ordered and received our tea and cakes, then selected pendik yeni escort a table and sat.

I’m not a Starbux person, so I burned my tongue on the HOT tea, and she instructed me on how to take the 2 cups apart and pour a little of one into the other so that it could cool – while keeping the main supply hot.

And we instantly just fell into conversation. About her sexual partners. About the G-spot. About being our age and discovering hair growing in surprising places. Just instantly comfortable talking about “things that are excluded from polite conversation” as well as topics that one would expect to have with a total stranger. There was just no pretense. No furtive concern.

Yes, there was the delicious feel of excitement. Of first-contact. Of naughty. But not in a way that indicated that either of us should care at all – about what anybody else thought of us. Just a wonderful, comfortable easiness as we sipped our tea and enjoyed our crumpets.

The conversation ranged. No subject was off limits. No subject too banal to include. Just enjoying the interaction. And tea.

And then, just as I took a big bite of my cinnamon cake, without any drama, she seemed to decide something and simply stated:

“Let’s see if we can kiss”.

Our conversation on the phone had highlighted that she was particularly fond of kissing, so I had somewhat anticipated it – but was following her lead and wasn’t expecting it *then*.

I struggled a bit with my mouthful of cake – and looked back at her – wondering if she meant “right here in Starbux, right now”, and prepared myself to lean across the table to chastely kiss her cheek – maintaining my position as “not a knuckle-dragging stereotypical male”.

But she matter-of-factly suggested that we each take another good sip of tea, then pulled out a lipstick-sized breath-spray, spritzed her mouth a couple of times, and offered it to me – adding “It’s essential oils. Give yourself 3 or 4 good spritzes, then go to the restroom to spit, if you like”.

I did – wondering if it was just a ploy to allow her to dash out the door while I was busy.

But the spray was pleasant.

I didn’t fall asleep – or dead.

And when I returned, she was there at the table, waiting for me.

She excused herself to the Ladies, and upon returning, asked if I had any Chapstick.

This woman really took her kissing seriously!

I admitted that I wasn’t carrying any Chapstick, as she pulled another phial from her purse and elegantly applied an “essential oil” lip balm. She apparently decided that I would just have to be experienced without the Chapstick. Quel domage.

I still was entirely unsure of her plan, but was ready and willing to follow her lead and do a full oral interaction with her with all of Starbux watching if that’s what she wanted.

But she collected her things, waited for me to clear our table, and lead me out the front door – and to my car.

I held the door for her, then got into my side.

Looked in her eyes and began to lean in.

Was this really going to happen?

She put her hand on my chest, pulled my glasses out of my hoodie neckline and put them carefully out of the way.

Carefully put the arm rests up – out of the way.

And surveyed the setup, apparently deciding that she was ready.

And, just like that, she leaned, I leaned, and our lips met.

Oh. My. sancaktepe escort How amazing. How beautiful. How soft. How firm. How long it had been since I just *kissed* someone for the purpose of kissing them. Not to peck and “get on to sex”. Not to “kiss ByeI’llSeeYouTonight”. But kissing for the purpose of kissing. Oh, God, KISSING.

I was vaguely aware that she grabbed both of my hands with hers and firmly guided them: one to her knee. One to my chest. Silently, to me, confirming that we were to KISS. Not to grope and distract ourselves with the rest of our beings. But to focus on THE KISS.

It was just timeless and beautiful and amazing.

Just our lips touching, parting, and touching again.

I involuntarily mewed – just a tiny expression of happiness.

Inevitably, my mouth opened just a bit – and each time, she pulled back just enough to be clear that “this kiss does not do that”. Never breaking the mood or the atmosphere. Just helping me focus on how her lips felt on mine. Not a Hollywood-porno oral exploration. But a *kiss*. Lips to lips. Flexing and yielding. Noses periodically switching sides. Eyes fluttering from time to time to verify that the world still did exist, then plunging closed again to just marvel at the amazing, beautiful, chaste, pristine, erotic, soft, firm, lips-to-lips kissing.

And it just went on. And on.

She pulled back and, purely factually, advised me that my mustache was a bit too long: that it was poking her. I made a mental note to trim it, then she leaned back in and re-established our connection.

I gently repositioned our one pair of hands – to be directly over my heart – so that she might feel it beating.

The other hand, she released and I slid up her arm – being careful to avoid her chest: not wanting to sully this kiss – this chaste kiss – and up her neck to her hair – very-gently holding the back of her head. Opening our eyes to pull back for a moment and look into each others’ eyes, then rejoining to continue.

Eventually kissing down her cheek to her neck – just landing little butterflies there before returning to her lips.

Marveling at just how long a *kiss* can continue to find newness.

She pulled back, looked at me with no hurry implied and asked: “Are you nervous?”

I thought a moment and was thrilled to realize my answer: “No. Not at all. This just feels so right. Are you nervous?” “Well, yes, a little. This is a lot to process.”

And we resumed.

Lips to lips to lips to lips.

The world just falling away – not mattering.

Until, finally, I slid my face to the side and rested my cheek against hers.

Just holding. Breathing. Feeling.

We pulled back and just looked at each others’ eyes. Glowing. Happy. And evaluating: she was, I think, deciding if I would see her again.

This meeting was over. She quietly informed me that she had to go. That she had only had one hour. We had already spent 90 minutes together.

There was no question of whether this might have been the prelude to “more”: it was clear that, in itself, it stood on its own.

There was also no feeling on my part of trying to figure out if I had done enough to warrant another meeting. It didn’t matter. This was enough – if nothing more ever occurred between us, it was beautiful and treasured.

She reached out and plucked at my sweatshirt. “Burn this”, she said with no malice. No meanness. Just giving helpful advice. “Wear something sexy next time”.

We said our goodbye’s – 3 times. I finished with the French “a bientot” – meaning “until next time”. She responded with “a Dieu” – “with God” – usually equated with “Good bye”.

I offered to walk her to her car – 2 spots over – but she just smiled, stepped out, and was gone.

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