Good heavens (or bad ones in this case), I didn’t realize I wrote a blog entry with the same title about a decade ago. Oh, well… here I go again on my own, pounding down the only road I’ve ever known, like a twister I was born to post alone. But I’ve made up my—Enough of that. I’m not even going to check the lyrics. Obviously, there’s nothing wrong with my memory. So… K is for Kisses. Again.
At present, I find myself only wanting to kiss someone tiny. That doesn’t mean I’d refuse to kiss a normal-sized man, but having only done that since the beginning of time, I’d like to try the non-existent alternative. Most people remember their first kiss, and I vaguely recall mine. He was fifteen years old, and an asshole. I was fourteen, and completely innocent. He didn’t like it when I wore heels, was humiliated that my English was better than his and that there was no question he asked me to which I didn’t know the answer. I was never one to pretend I knew less than I did so a boy could feel better, so the thing lasted about three months.
What the hell does that have to do with kissing? Nothing, and everything. At this point in my life, I can’t think of kissing without thinking that the simple act of sharing saliva should be enough to shrink someone. Getting all those juices going with someone magnificently wrong for you should have that sort of payoff, right? If we’re to suffer the deep disappointment only made possible by someone who only wants to use you, we should have something to show for it, right? And what better something than a tiny person sinking into the plush velvet of our lips? I’d happily endure various degrees of suffering, just as long as—in the end—the cause of my heartbreak ends up in the palm of my hand.
But never mind that pound of flesh I’d exchange for that 0.5 oz. of flesh. Never mind suffering, and let’s get back to the kissing. Let’s think I have the power to shrink whoever I want, and I do so. What’s the first thing I do? Well, I can’t tell you that, but I can tell you the second thing I’d do: I’d kiss the hell out of my tiny man. I’d press him to my lips, and make him feel how tiny he is. I’d let him digest that information as my lips pulse against the length of his front and let me know he understands with muffled screams that penetrate the first layers of my lips like the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings. A butterfly that’s just been pinned into eternal captivity. But how does he explain the caving in of his entire existence to a pair of lips coming down to claim him? He can’t. How does he explain that force pressing down on his entire body? He can’t, but I can.
Once upon a time, the woman made a wish. She wished for a tiny man, the size of her pinkie. She looked into getting herself admitted into an asylum, her desire felt so mad. She read promising words about healing if she only removed part of her brain, or shocked the whole of it with a series of electric currents, or took the right drugs. Naturally, she was skeptical. How could she excise such an extensive part of herself? Would any procedure be more harmful than the alternative?
She lived with the weight of her lust for years, dating men that exceeded her height, touching them in every way, finding them wanting. She wanted her tiny man. She questioned her thoughts often. What good would such a runt do? What use would such a little man be? What could such a creature do for her that was better than anything someone taller could do? She had answers to those questions, but she kept them to herself. Despite that silence that sometimes felt like shame, she knew that part of her was the best part of her. That little runt would make her happy. That little man would be more useful to her than anyone else in the world.
One day she stumbled upon a tiny man; she found him where she least expected. When she saw him, she rushed to chase him and lowered her palm to the ground even as the tiny man rushed away from her lumbering form. “Stop,” she said, the back of her hand pressed against the hot sidewalk, and he did. He did as he was told, and looked back; a suicidal gesture if she had been anyone other than herself. She smiled and nodded at her hand, and grinned like an idiot when he turned his entire body around and walked toward her hand. She felt it burn on one side, and burn at the other when his tiny palms and knees pressed into it, and he climbed to the center of her hand. She waited until he was finished, and didn’t do what I’d do first… or maybe she did. She lifted him to her face and lowered her face toward him simultaneously. And they kissed. But maybe she’s a little like me, and eventually took over until she heard him scream and demand to be put down. And then, like me, maybe she did.