I haven’t kissed a boy in years and that has less to do with the fact that I live in South Africa than it does with the fact that I am awkward.
Beyond the word itself.
More like if it had to personified itself, my form would materialize.
Men and boys alike haven’t been able to understand that I am just not there – or at least I am no longer interested in it as I was back then.
Back then being when I would sneak peeks at the ‘steamy’ scenes of my mother’s favourite soapies or back then when frustration filled me more than my bare chest filled the training bras I had so begged for – to fit in with.
Training bra, how laughable my attempt had been to all those who had seen it. It was like trying to coax gold out of burned coal.
So there I was mid-conversation, with a dashing man, laughing and throwing my head back as one does in these situations – unbeknownst to the impending doom.
I caught his eyes flicker over to my lips, the universal signal, one which at the time I chose to ignore; praying that it wouldn’t lead to it. He leans, close enough I could almost smell the scent of his long forgotten morning coffee, and hesitates for fleeting second that one might think he was reading my thoughts.
I pull away.
I pulled away and I haven’t looked back since.
Yes I’ve traced my lips in the mornings as I paint a colour so inviting that anyone might tempt themselves to accept the invitation.
This isn’t me being conceited, it’s a lifetime of ‘ K, your lips are so divine” or “Mam, you have such luscious and full lips” or the general remarks on my lips that have caused me to have adopted this view.
Nevertheless, they haven’t been in use.
It’s not that I don’t find the idea as enticing, believe me you could have been the guy I was daydreaming about.
Yet when the come times and the situation arises, you’d have a better chance of me jumping out of the plane then kissing you.
Ideally? Yes. In reality? No.
Ironic isn’t it?