Before I begin, you’ll have to disabuse yourself of all sententiousness. Do not snicker, do not guffaw, and do not raise your brows so high they disappear into your questionable hairline. Do not do that thing where you try to keep the mirth in but fail and it bursts out in an embarrassing shout...wait, I just checked it out, and it’s called guffawing. I already mentioned that. Whatever, just don’t.
It’s imperative that you keep an open mind as you read this. I am not weird-just your average girl with an average brain and an above-average body. I don’t need “help” or preaching from you holier-than-thou types with your flat noses in the air like you’re trying to sniff out sin.
The thing is... I consider myself a kiss connoisseur. Yes, you read right, I collect kisses, and I am considerably experienced both in the giving and taking of said act. I live for the rush, the endorphins, the feeling of euphoria that kissing gives me-and I am damn good at it.
Let me tell you what started it.
Ayo was my first, and you know what they say about firsts. He was the stud of the whole fifth form: star striker and next in line for captain of our winning football team, he was an excellent break-dancer with ‘usher-like’ moves that left girls creaming, and his circle of friends included the most popular of the most popular- some of them sixth formers. It didn’t matter that behind his tall, dark good looks, brooding eyes and flashing white teeth was the personality of a teaspoon and the brains of a cactus; no, that did not matter at all. When Ayo smiled at a girl, she was despised by her friends for the rest of the day.
He was that good.
He was a dream, a teenage dream who always had the coolest bandanas and baggy camouflage shorts to go with his trademark jean jacket with a flaming red skull on it. He was the dream of the entire female population at school.
Ah, Ayo. Just thinking of him makes me...but I digress.
Ayo and I got together in the middle of the second term, during the holiday extension classes and we caused the stir of the year. Not because I was a plain Jane or dowdy or unpopular-no. It was exactly for the opposite.
I was the unattainable girl.
You see, growing up with a divorcee mother who thought all men belonged in a zoo made me indifferent to men- and consequently, more desirable to them. I inherited my beauty-queen mother’s mocha-coloured skin and almond-shaped brown eyes, a tall slim figure stacked with a gravity-defying bosom and wide hips. I had heard talk of me being the school “Beyonce” bandied about, but I didn’t care.
Not when I was aloof, cold and an insufferable snub, especially to the boys. And I believed whole-heartedly in the superiority of my sex.
That was the main reason why my being spotted in his trademark flaming skull jacket caused such a ruckus. Personally, I remember that I'd only agreed to date him because I was bored. And boy, did he cure my ennui! I can’t remember any conversations I had with Ayo about anything, but I remember kissing. Lots of kissing.
Wonderful, heart throbbing kisses in the reference section of the library; slow, playful kisses in darkened classrooms in the precious fifteen minutes we had to ourselves after prep; naughty, stolen kisses at the corner of the stadium during games; hot, hurried kisses outside the gate just before our parents come to pick us up during the holidays...the boy knew what to do with those lips of his! All he had to do was glance at me in class and I'd turn into a puddle of jittering hormones.
It goes without saying that I failed most of my courses that term. The last part of fifth form is a blur to me, but I remember the feeling of Ayo’s lips with razor-sharp clarity. I can still taste minty toothpaste, smell sweat and Brut deodorant, feel the roughness of his fuzzy teenage chin...
Ayo got me hooked. Hooked on kissing.
Now, this whole narrative is not about him- NO; frankly, apart from his lips, he was dumb as soup and could not carry a conversation if his life depended on it. This narrative is to defend my addiction! There are worse things than being hooked on hormonal endorphins, right?
In my foray into the addictive world of osculation, I have noticed that there are different types of kisses and different sensations come with those kisses. Let me explain with these classifications, which are drawn from personal experience and named after the person who has influenced said experience most memorably.
I will start with Ayo, because...well, nobody kisses better than an “Ayo” kisser. He nibbles, he licks, he sucks...and he dies it all with an unhurried, confident ease that you cannot help but respond to. Ayo kissers leave women with weak knees and thumping hearts. These kisses are slow and deep and sensual and makes your insides into a hot mush of liquid pleasure that spreads through you and makes your limbs weak.
I could describe “Ayo” kisses all day, but nothing will come close to the real deal. If no one has ever kissed you like this, ladies, (yes, even you, Miss Prissy Nose-in-the-air. don’t think I didn’t see you judging), drop everything right now and go exploring! I promise you that it is well worth it. And guys, if you cannot kiss like this...well, all hope is not lost. You could be a Sam kisser.
Sam kissers are comfortable. They’re the kind of guys you could kiss for an entire night and not risk losing your head (literally and figuratively, if you know what I mean wink wink). At first, you may feel nothing but a faint pleasantness, but Sam kissers are consistent. They stick with their steady technique, and after a while, you start to feel the heat. The coals of pleasure are stoked slowly, but once the flame is ignited, it’s worth it. Sam kisses you like it’s his job, and he is very, very good at it. There will be no wild excitement here, but there is a comfortable feeling of euphoria.
Sam kissers are the guys you date if you don’t want to lose yourself and fall madly in love (the horror!). There is no danger of a raging inferno. You will kiss Sam forever, and you will not complain-not unless you cheat on him and meet an Ayo. Guys, definitely aim for this one. You can’t go wrong. If you fall short, then you could be a ‘Buchi’.
Ah, Buchi. Buchis are cocky and overly confident braggarts, loud and pompous. In fact, they could bullshit you so much that you expect great things from the nigga! However, when they get down to it, it’s like an overly enthusiastic dog is licking your face. To make things worse, because he believes he’s God's gift to women, he is not open to correction or suggestion. He slobbers all over you, and then looks at you with a grin like they’re saying “I just totally rocked this girl’s world. Hope she doesn’t faint with pleasure or fall at my feet in worship. I hate when they do that.”
Nigga please! I'm sitting here with saliva dripping from my freaking nose! Ew.
To make things worse, he could also be a Nino. Ninos go from zero to a hundred within the space of a second. You close your eyes and your lips meet his and the next thing you are assaulted with lips, tongue, teeth, hands everywhere! Before you can say “what’s up dude?” he’s holding out your bra like it’s a freaking trophy. You’re left wondering what the hell is happening. They vary in their degree of bra-unclasping deftness, and I have found -sadly- that most guys fall into this category. This is not good statistics, dudes! Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned snogging? Let me tell you, it’s a dying culture!
Lemme take a few seconds and calm down before I talk about my last category-the Deles.
These guys are like Buchi and Nino joined together, but the major difference is that they’re zombies. Yes, zombies. Kissing a Dele is like kissing a fish-you are left bewildered and with a weird taste in your mouth. However, all hope is not lost. They could go in two ways: either your Dele is open to suggestion, or he’s not. If he is, ladies, give him time. He might improve-or he might not. Maybe your Dele can metamorphose into a beautiful Sam butterfly (let’s face it, that’s the highest he can aspire to), or maybe not, but life is all about chances, right?
If he doesn’t, dump him and find Ayo, stat! Life is too short.
My connoisseurship is not without its risks and pitfalls. Don’t even get me started on the halitosis, crooked teeth, thrush, mono, throat infections...really, guys, help a sistah out and invest in dental floss! Yet, in spite of these, I don’t plan to give up. I collect kisses, damn it! I love it, I'm good at it, and if you think it’s disgusting, why don’t you meet me for a tutorial? I can stake my industrial strength MacCleans toothpaste on the assurance that you will become a convert.