Everything depends on the way they kiss. The first touch of their lips against yours, the way their tongue fits in your mouth, where they put their hands. We remember the ones who cannot kiss. The lips that are too eager or hesitant, the tongue that invades or lolls or retreats into the mouth like a snail, as if there is an invisible epiphragm keeping it away from your own. The ones who can kiss are the ones we love, the ones whose touch we remember, whose body, their face, things they’ve said. If am man cannot kiss, that is what we will remember. His tongue last night was like a buttplug, the way he plunged it into your mouth and kept it there while holding the back of your head. He was not sexy and what he was doing was not sexy, but the conversation had been nice and he’d complimented me and since I’d been at the computer all day working on something or other – my brain was so fried I could barely speak, and all I wanted to do was have flirtatious exchanges and hear nice things said to me – I went along with it. The size of his body was nice, the bulk of him, not fat but fully-grown, stocky, built, present, there. When we shook hands his palm engulfed mine.
“Big hands,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Is that like big hands, big…?” I said.
“It’s kind of average,” he said.
“I want more than average,” I said, playfully, teasing him.
I could tell he liked that, liked to be teased, playfully. He was a tall man from somewhere rustic just outside London. There was something simple and honest about him, uncomplicated, not too much baggage, if any. I could tell he was a man who did not know how to handle the baggage of others, though he was intrigued by my approach, which was clearly a flaunting of my baggage.
“Should we go into a cubicle?” he said.
There were hardly any people around amongst the cubicles upstairs. It was close to 11pm. We were standing in the corridor and he stroked my chest while we talked, played with my nipples. Every now and then someone would walk past and he would press his body against mine to make room for the guy to walk behind him. I said I didn’t think he’d be up for the things I’d want to do to him.
“Like what?” he said.
“I’d want to fuck you quite viciously,” I said. “And slap you. And spit on you. That sort of thing.”
“That’s not really my thing,” he said.
“No,” I said. “I didn’t think so.”
“So is that what you like to do?” he said.
“Sometimes,” I said.
“Why?” he said.
“History,” I said.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“History,” I said. “Things that have been done to my people.”
Eventually we did go into a cubicle. I insisted on leaving the door open. I wanted to be watched and I wanted other men to join us. I did not want to be alone with him in a cubicle. I did not want him enough for that. A man who cannot kiss is a man I cannot be alone with for too long in a cubicle, or anywhere. Of course, that is a generalisation, because later on I spent about half an hour in a cubicle with a man who could not kiss. His lips were stiff in the way you make them stiff when you want to pretend to be a person without teeth, when you curl your lips around the teeth you have and make yourself look toothless. This man, who was from Saudi Arabia and was considerably younger than the rustic big-guy, had several redeeming features. His body was taut and lean and muscled and his back had that lovely silky smooth feel, skin that is a light brown and sculpted, and his chest was hairy, his nipples soft, his shoulders firm and rounded. And he was eager and enthusiastic. He said – even though this is not something I like to hear – that he liked older men.
“And what do you like doing with them?” I said.
Two men in a cubicle. Two men who like to fuck. Two men who can put themselves in the position of a man who likes to get fucked. Two men who are good on their backs. Two men who want to fuck each other, but do not want to be fucked. Still, penetration was not what I was focused on. Having him close was nice. Another body against mine was what I needed after twelve hours in front of the computer screen.
This morning I woke up with the kind of headache you get after sex and no orgasm, so I called the chatline and spoke to a guy I’ve spoken to before who likes to lick my shithole and wants me to lick his hairy hole. We came together with mouth-to-arsehole images in our heads, whispering words of shit and stink and turds and filth and love into each other’s ears. A voice is sometimes enough, a voice that fits yours, those voices in your head, a voice that is everything, that excites you and comforts you and that is almost your own, that is your own, like the right lips that touch yours, the right tongue that presses against yours, so perfect that there is no resistance, no desire to leave, nothing that forces you to remember.