You know I think Jae and I are starting to get boring for y’all, Clit Lit wise.  And I was reading back entries in my journal.  I know, right?  I have no life.  Any-narcissitic-writer, I came across an entry written while me and my (poetic, artistic) college roommates discussing perfect kisses.  And I wanted to write a whole Clit Lit worshipping good ole macking out.  As a homage to an often forgotten part of sex.  So this one is a bit of an experiment…you’ll notice, I’m sure, that there’s no actually fucking in it.  But I hope you enjoy it anyhow.  It’s a first draft, so I welcome comments and critiques.  And go kiss someone you love today, and really savor it.

“Put down the shot glass,” Jane tells me. I smile a crooked half smile, put it to my lips, and throw it back anyway.

“Mary. You are being cut off.”

I snort. “I’ve had, like, three. That was my third one. That’s not too much.”

“For you, honey, it is.”

“Nuh-uh.”

Jane raises one eyebrow, a very villainous look for her. “Do you want your alter-ego to appear?”

I smile a Cheshire Cat grin. “So what if she does?”

Jane’s left eyebrow shoots up to join her right one on its high horse. “You’re taken.”

“We have an understanding.” I grab her wrist and clink our empty glasses together against her will. I head for the bathroom. I feel her looking at me.

Not stopping, I let one eye float a look over my shoulder.

“What kind of understanding?” She shouts at my back. I turn my head and keep going. “What kind of understanding?”

I push through the door and it swings shut behind me as I watch it in the mirror. It calls to mind the Wild West. I imagine me, cowboy hat and boots, aiming to rob some girls of their kisses and I smile to myself. A flash in the corner of the mirror. My eyes dart up and there, with a buzzed head and full lips, a girl smiling back at me. Did she think that grin was for her? I run my eyes over her slightly stocky build, her thumbs hugging her belt loops, the casual, soft angle of her elbows. Perhaps that smile was for her.

I turn on one heel. I imagine that weird bird call that makes its way into all western films. She’s taken aback. I look her square in the eyes, take four deliberate steps toward her. Spread my fingers on my hand, put it squarely on the door behind her. My face inches from her face. I push the stall open and slide past her, sideways.

What can I say? I have to pee.

I hear her let out a deep sigh, heavy with dashed anticipation, I think. Her lumbering footsteps give way to her feet appearing under my door–facing the sink. She starts running the water and I hurry to finish. I need to catch her.

I bust open the stall door and grab her by one of those soft-angled elbows. She stiffens only a little but follows the motion like a rag doll. I slam her up against the side of the stall and a moment of suave saves me from heaving her into the toilet paper dispenser. She lands with a satisfying thud. I grab the crook of her elbows and push, not all my weight behind it but enough to seem serious, so she’s pressed and looking at my lips. Into my eyes. She swallows. Big. Her eyes are the size of dinner plates.

I lean in, press my chest against hers. I can feel her nipples harden through my thin shirt. My mouth gets close to her ear. “If you say yes, I get to do something to you. Whatever it is that I want.”

She doesn’t let a sigh get the better of her this time. There is no sharp intake of breath like I expected. Just a steady nod, once then twice. I look at her face. Her bottom lip is far bigger than her top one, giving her a constant look of pouting, all except when she smiles. I want to bite that lip. But you can’t just outright bite a stranger’s lip. You have to warm it up first.

I lean in and press my mouth to hers. And I trace her hairline as it wanders over the back of her neck, one finger only. Her lips pop open and I fit my top lip between them, easy. I love the cold, slick feeling when I pull away, a sign my lips have been somewhere adventurous. We kiss again. Our teeth bang a little. That shock runs up, into my gums, and I know I’ve connected with something. My tongue is aggressive. It doesn’t wander, it invades. And her tongue welcomes it, grabbing it and wrestling it into submission. I breathe in without stopping, inhaling the herbal scent that’s lingering on her cheeks. Why is it there? I caress that pouty lower lip. Trace the outline with the tip of my tongue. She pushes against me, now. Eager. But she doesn’t bite.

I want to. So badly. And why am I nervous? This is a stranger. And these are thoughts that the Kissing Bandit does not have.

I bit. It was succulent. But not too juicy. Like a perfectly ripened peach, just enough sugar and tasted like a warm summer day, even in a musty bathroom at a dive bar in the middle of Manhattan.

I pull away. Keep my hands on her elbows, keep her pinned. I smile. And I turn on my heel and walk away.

Jane sees me come out of the bathroom. Something says to me that she’s been there the whole while. I walk past her. I don’t really want to hear the crap.

She catches up to me, two steps to my one. “What are you doing?”

“Exercising my understanding.” I walk out the door. The muggy air hits me like a wool blanket.

“Yeah. I know. Why did you leave?”
I turn to Jane. “You aren’t judging me? Really?”

“No. I think it’s probably good for you two.”

My eyebrows rocket up this time. She looks down. Jane, Plain Jane, with her long blonde pony tail and her sneakers at clubs and her trucker strut and her moral objections. She looks up. She leans in. And she kisses me, fits her lips perfectly into mine. And walks away.