Just A Little Kiss

It’s somewhere between eight o'clock and eight-thirty on a Sunday morning and I’m driving a trick back across town to his friend’s apartment.

And I’d prefer if he didn’t try to kiss me before exiting the car.

It’s not because he isn’t cute. He’s very cute. A little too skinny for my taste, but universally, people would call him handsome. And the sex wasn’t terrible. A solid B+, actually. He even surprised me with a little over-the-shoulder action, which didn’t piss me off. But given the choice between kissing him and not kissing him right now, I’d prefer not. It’s just not a good time for me.

I didn’t brush my teeth this morning and my lips are cracked and parched. The area around my mouth is burned from stubble abuse and I’m splotchy because I think he had cat hair on his shorts and I’m deathly allergic to cats.

Cats are usually a deal breaker for me. Not just because cat dander can kill me, but because men who own cats give me the willies. I feel the same way about male cat-owners as I do about men who take baths. It just doesn’t sit right with me. There’s something about the image of guy and his cat that makes me the opposite of horny. Just get a fucking dog, bruh. You and I both know that it’s God’s will.

But even if the rogue cat hair on his clothes didn’t send me into an asthmatic’s waking nightmare, I’d prefer if he didn’t try to kiss me right now.

You see, I’m not a cuddler. I don’t have the need to be held after sex – or ever, really. My parents were very affectionate and no one’s ever beat me with a switch. But still, I don’t think I crave physical contact in the way that some of my friends confess to pining for – at least not post-fornication, anyway. Plus, I give off a lot of body heat and I don’t want to incubate with someone pressed up against me. I only cuddle in extreme cases. And If I kiss this guy right now, it’ll be like cuddling under false pretenses. Sorry, sport. I think I'm done.

But he is a nice guy. And his flight back to Minnesota departs in six hours. He might want one more kiss before he’s subjected to TSA manhandling and wine nap interruptions from Curtis the Flight Attendant.

Just a quick peck. We’ll meet in the middle, over the armrest, and we’ll barely touch lips. Boom. Done.

But that wouldn't be real. It would be frivolous. That's the word. For him to kiss me would be frivolous. And by the nature of frivolous things, I wouldn't need it. Much like cats and cuddling and Curtis the Flight Attendant.

And now we're nearing his friend's apartment on the other side of town and he's pointing me around curves and painted lines on the pavement. And now I'm stopped. And now he's looking at me. And now the radio's singing "Consolation Prizes" because the music of Phoenix is palatable at best, but at least he won't think I'm trying too hard.

And then he says "Later," and he leaves.

It’s somewhere between eight-thirty and nine o'clock on a Sunday morning and I’m driving back home. And I'm thinking that an ice cream sandwich would be delicious right now.

Ice cream sandwiches don't make things weird. They don't leave. You just eat them.