Qu’est-ce que c’est a kiss? Wikipedia says it’s the meeting of the mouth with another mouth or other parts of the body, or an object. Kissing the way we know it here in the West is very much a Western thing. Not everyone kisses the way people kiss here. What we may think of as a basic human need, is not. A while ago (in April), two men were kicked out of a pub in Soho for kissing, so a kiss-in was organised and hundreds of gay men and lesbians turned up at the John Snow pub to kiss for the cameras. So many of us are afraid to kiss in public and we rationalise that fear away, or we ignore the spontaneous joy of it. A kiss that is not a brief kiss – mwah-mwah – in greeting, is erotic. For some people, the erotic is terrifying. For some, it is too erotic to share in public.
A kiss is an expression of love. It is food. I will take your spit into my mouth; I will pretend that your tongue is my food. Feed me with your tongue, keep it moving and changing and going in and out in different sizes. That is food. Other uses for spit are to lubricate and to show contempt. A friend once said that the revolution would start with the kiss, and look, it almost did. But then the Guardian covered the story and the weather improved, and some of us had to get to an evening barbecue or to a civil partnership ceremony. And so we continue to ignore the fact that for years our friends and family have had the cheek to get married when we could not. Fuck civil partnerships. Consolation prizes are for second best.
Costas is Greek. It’s a nice coincidence, because I’ve just been reading about Nanos Valaoritis, the Greek surrealist writer and his nine-year stay in London. And… a friend of mine has recently returned to live in Athens after about thirty years of living in London. Greece is in the news. Greeks have been on my mind, so meeting Costas at the sauna in Vauxhall yesterday was a right person at right time kind of occasion. Except, of course, that Costas was nothing like my friend – who is a bit of a surrealist herself – and nothing like Nanos V., who I know very little about, but from what I do know, Nanos would never have been a trolley-dolly on Air Olympia. Nanos’ family owned its own island in Greece.
But Costas. He was eager, and I like eager. I need eager. The guy before Costas – Gary! (now, if one ever wants a name for a man who cannot be eager, that name might be Gary) – yes, Gary – Gary was not eager. Gary was cute – all slim and smooth and with a substantial penis – but he had no umph or hunger, and he was obsessed, as so many English men seem to be, with the penis. As if everything is concenmtrated and depends on the penis. For me, in most cases, the kiss comes first. And Costas could kiss. Costas liked to kiss. Even his name seems to carry echoes of the word. The “k” sound and the “s” sound and a vowel sound here and there. He liked that delicate kind of kissing, where you just brush mouths together and tease each other’s lips, maybe nibble gentle on the edge of a bottom lip. He liked the hungry type of kissing, too, where you devour the other’s mouth, feed on their tongue, press as deep as you can into their throat. It’s what Costas liked to do with cock, too. Costas liked to choke. He liked to be overwhelmed with cock.
He liked to rim. He liked to fuck, even if that wasn’t on offer, though towards the end when I was sitting on his chest he forced his thumb up my arse and when I resisted he said, no, no, keep it there, just for when you come. It was intense. I can’t remember the last time I came with something up my arse. I felt like my legs and my arse were going to spasm, to cramp, but in the end they didn’t, and Costas got a bit of cum in his mouth, as he’d asked for.
The coincidence today was that someone posted a link to an article about violent sex and PTSD on their Facebook page. It made me think about how slapping has become an important part of sex for me, and choking roleplay, but I very rarely find anyone who wants to do it to me. Maybe that should be my assignment. To find someone to fuck me and slap me and choke me. To find someone I can trust. Maybe that’s my personal revolution.