He didn’t like to kiss. He told me once that kissing made him feel like he was suffocating. He couldn’t stand it…

In the beginning I assumed he meant he just didn’t like kissing, but then I had to wonder if he just didn’t like kissing me.

He’d told me stories of other girls, of women he had been with. Was he being open and trusting me with his desires when he had not with others? I told myself that it was. He felt he could be his true self with me and not risk unhappiness in the admission.

So we didn’t kiss.

It’s funny how we seek the validation of others, that one person who we choose to connect with and love above all others especially. I thought I could be ok with not kissing. I’d never been the teen who spent lunch breaks making out and there were other things that would turn me of in foreplay. I figured this was a compromise I was willing to commit to.

It wasn’t until I was denied that I realised being kissed was a form of validation I craved. To me kissing is passion, it’s love and connection. It’s a way for someone to tell you that you are beautiful without words. It’s looking into the soul of someone and sharing something primal.

How could I tell him when he had made it clear he wanted something different? I knew things could not carry on as they were. I craved affection and romance. I wanted to be dressed up and shown off. Taken away for dirty weekends, to find dark corners to satisfy my lust at every opportunity. I wasn’t the girl I thought I was and I couldn’t deny her any longer.

So now she’s free. Figuring things out as she goes along, lusting after that next kiss.

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