by Amber Kizer
“Hear you on that.”
“But I don’t think he’s the one who’s going to eclipse my moon.”
“Tell me you haven’t been reading Hallmark love cards again.”
“Some are very poetic.”
“Sick. You are ill. No one looks for romance in the romance section, honey.”
“I like them.”
“He’s not going to buy a card for you.”
“You never know.” It’s my secret fantasy for a guy to hand me one of those huge smooshy-squishy, lovely-dovey Hallmark cards for no reason other than because he saw it and thought of me.
“Not going to happen. Why don’t you bring the fantasies back down to earth. Hope for an orgasm the first time you have sex. Something at least possible in the known universe.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Yes, I am. I’m being the voice of reason.”
Change the subject. “Tim’s good?”
“We’re good.”
“Good.” I really want to ask about his proportions, but, well, that could be construed as invasive.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I am. Maggie and Clarice are having a sleepover later.”
“Good. Let’s have burgers on Saturday night?”
“Yeah, it’s been a while. That’d be good.”
“And Gert?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re not gay. Maybe you’re just not that into him?”
That’s something to consider.
This is both a rant and a rave because frankly, I can’t decide how I feel about them. My boobs took the idea “reach for the stars” seriously. Lying on my back, I’ve got twin launchpads with shuttles. Any minute now, I’m going to hear the NASA voice counting down to liftoff.
My bras aren’t fitting right. I’m kinda spilling over the top and out the sides. I haven’t gained weight, since my jeans still fit, but my boobs are getting ginormous. Slight exaggeration, perhaps, but who tells them to grow? And more important, who tells them to stop? Has a woman ever had boobs that didn’t stop growing? She’s probably stuck facedown somewhere, her throat hoarse from calling for help because all of a sudden her boobs went from having their own zip code to dry-docking her right where she stood.
Seriously, where’s the reboot function? Where’s the off switch? Who do I have to say nice things to to get them to stop? If I sleep on my stomach, will that slow the rate of growth?
Clarice pulls out a bag full of candles and begins setting them around Maggie’s room. We’re starting to look like the candle store at the Plaza—the one with eighty discreetly placed fire extinguishers and no overhead lights.
“What’s with the candles?” I ask.
“My sister says you must have the correct ambience when discussing kissing and kissing techniques,” Clarice answers, intently positioning pillars and votives.
Maggie moves behind her with one of those foot-long lighters, setting every wick aglow. The lit candles begin filling the room with a mosh pit of scents.
“Didn’t she mean actual kissing ambience?” The room smells like a yummy brothel in Turkey.
“No. It’s a ritual thing in our family. You get Frenched, you light smelly candles.” Clarice sets the empty shopping bag aside.
Uh-huh. And when do you sacrifice the chicken and smear frog intestines on your face? I glance at Maggie, hoping I’m not the only one feeling empty of understanding. She smiles at me. I hesitate, then venture in. “I don’t get it.”
Maggie shakes her head in minute agreement.
“There’s nothing to get.” Clarice is oblivious to the look Maggie and I shoot each other.
“Okay.” I don’t get it. But I really like the fruity coffee-cream candle wafting to my left.
Maggie pulls out a file folder from under her bed and shuffles through computer printouts. “I did a little research.”
Okay, here’s the deal, I’ve never understood how much I need and want girlfriends until this moment. I’m not going to get all gooey and gushy, but I have to say that watching Clarice light candles to purify my kissing karma and Maggie pull out her file-o’-technique, I realize that I’m blessed. I have to wonder why it took so long.
Maggie shuffles the papers and pauses like she’s gathering her thoughts before starting the lecture. “I’m impressed by the sheer number of techniques! I’m not sure we can cover the spectrum in a single sleepover.”
“Whatever. What are they?” Clarice waves her hands and jingles several very goth charm bracelets.
“Soft. Hard. Biting. Sucking. Breathing. They all have weird names.”
“Maybe we should watch the movies first, then decide which is which?” While I’m a serious fan of book learning, I’m thinking visual aids may be much more helpful. And more fun. Fun is good.
“Fine.” Maggie reaches for a stack of DVDs while Clarice pops the tab on a Diet Coke and rips the bag of Ruffles.
I pull out the Twizzlers, gummy bears and Doritos. Quite a delicious combo when eaten together. The salty, the sweet, the artificial chemical haze of the twenty-first century.
“What’s first on the list?” I ask, grabbing a full-calorie beverage.
“From Here to Eternity.” Maggie puts in the DVD and stacks more pillows for better viewing.
The beginning credits roll. Either there’s something wrong with Maggie’s HDTV or the movie is really old, like precolor.
“What’s that?” Clarice licks her fingers. “It’s black-and-white. Who makes black-and-white movies anymore? Seriously retro.”
Maggie shushes her. “It’s voted the best kiss ever on-screen,” she says.
“It’s in black-and-white.” Apparently, Clarice only lives in Technicolor.
“I’m just the librarian here,” Maggie offers.
I prepare to be blown away by the mind-blowingness of the most perfect kiss ever to grace the silver screen.
Clarice can’t just give herself up to the experience. “Are we watching these chronologically?”
Maggie presses pause. “Nope, ‘best kiss’ is how they’re listed.” She waves her stack of papers around.
Clarice motions to the television. “Who are these people? They’re old.”
“Yeah, so?” Maggie shrugs with disdain and pauses the movie.
I try to break the tension. “Frank Sinatra is in it. I recognize him.” This must be the original.
“Oh.” Clarice shuts up as Maggie presses play again.
“What’s it about?” I ask, thinking there could be more action to the best kiss ever.
“Barracks life in Hawaii in 1941.” Maggie hands me the DVD case so I can read the back.
“World War One?” Clarice asks, munching on more chips.
“Two. One was in the teens,” I answer. What number are we on now? Four?
“He’s hot,” Maggie says.
I look up. Not bad for a colorless man. “Where are the women?” This is way too old to be the first gay kiss, so where are our counterparts?
Clarice says exactly what I’m thinking. “Okay, I’m bored. Can we fast-forward?”
Maggie turns to me. “Do you think that affects the kiss rating? If we don’t know the whole story?”
I compromise. Isn’t a kiss a kiss no matter what the rest of the story is? Would porn be so popular if the story was important? “Well, go to where we see a girl come in.”
Clarice screeches “Stop!” when a woman comes on-screen. This woman’s got a reputation. She’s married. Is she giving him “the look”? They’re making eyes at each other. Is that allowed? How old is this movie? She smokes.
We glance at each other, hoping we’re not the only one unsure of the content. Is this movie about unhappily married people? “How is this a great kiss? They haven’t even shaken hands,” I ask as minutes click by.
“He likes her,” Maggie says.
“Who?”
“The sergeant guy,” Clarice answers.
“How can you tell?” I ask, still dubious.<
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“He’s ogling the pic on the guy’s desk,” Maggie says, zooming forward a little more.
“Do they like each other or hate each other?” Clarice asks.
“I can’t tell,” I say. “Can you tell?” I shrug, pointing to Maggie.
“Not really. But isn’t that what great love is all about? Not liking each other, alternating with liking?” She doesn’t take her fingers off the remote.
We skip more. Sandy beaches and bizarre swimming attire. “This could be it.” I have a vague recollection of my mother having watched this movie before. Ooo, they kiss. In the sand and covered in salt water.
“Can you see anything?” Clarice turns her head to the side like she’s the camera and controls the scene.
“His head is in the way.” Maggie shifts too.
I’m not any closer to knowing anything. “Is that the kiss? The kiss?”
“I don’t know. The list just has the title of the movie, not a specific kiss.” Maggie peers at the papers like the answer is there, waiting to be deciphered.
“She gets around. They’re dating? I thought she’s married. Is she a tramp? He’s yelling at her and she finds this attractive. Chick needs therapy.” Clarice starts narrating the film.
“Go faster, this sucks.”
“Is he going to die?”
“Yeah, think so.”
“Then the kiss wasn’t that good, was it? Why’d it make the list? Pearl Harbor? We’re almost two hours into the movie and now they bomb Pearl Harbor?”
Maggie skips the rest in superspeed.
“So what did we learn? Boys die. Girls sail away and no one lives happily ever after. Why was this a great kiss movie?”
“I don’t know.” Maggie has a crestfallen expression on her face. Her good idea could turn out to be a very bad one.
“What’s next?” I ask.
“Gone with the Wind,” Maggie replies.
“It’s like four hours long,” Clarice complains.
“We’ll skip the unimportant stuff,” says Maggie.
Forty minutes of fast-forwarding and one pee break later, we’re looking at THE END.
“Huh.”
“ ’Kay.”
“Aside from a bunch of bigots, did you get anything from that?”
Clarice shakes her head. “Me either.”
“What’s next?” I can barely ask.
“Cruel Intentions and Wild Things are the girl-on-girl best kisses.”
“I thought we decided I’m not gay.”
“We did, but this is just clarification. Besides, I’m pretty sure a kiss is a kiss is a kiss. And frankly, don’t girls do everything better?”
“Wasn’t that in a song somewhere?” And true. So freakin’ true.
“Maybe.”
“Aren’t we too young to be this cynical?” Clarice asks. A good point.
“This coming from the world’s hugest femme rock fan?” I say.
She blushes. “I am not.”
“But cynical you are.”
“At least we’re not bitter.” Maggie pops open another can of Dr Pepper.
“Bitter comes in the twenties,” Clarice adds.
“Says who?” I don’t want to be bitter. A survivor’s pointed perspective is not bitter.
“My sister.”
“Miss French-kiss-candle-girl says the twenties are bitter?”
“She did just break up with the love of her life.”
“Oh.”
“Her fourth soul mate in six years.”
“Do we really have that many?” Is it possible that we all have multiple soul mates? People who could be the ONE but aren’t the ONLY?
“She hasn’t exactly been in a long-term relationship with any of them, so I hesitate to say yes.”
“Point.” Maggie pauses the movie. “Don’t you think if we have a soul mate, the divorce rate should be lower? I mean, we must have more than one since people keep looking.
“Or are they impossible to see? Like everyone’s soul mate is on the other side of the world and unless you join the Peace Corps, or backpack through Europe, you’re destined to never find him.”
Clarice swallows, then says, “Let’s say there’s always a soul mate somewhere near you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“What if there’s always a soul mate around and you only have to recognize him?”
Lucas? Yeah, my soul ain’t that pretty. But maybe he’s my beautiful half and I’m the smart half. That would make me ugly and him stupid. Not quite the halves divided equally.
“Who’s yours?” Clarice pins me with a dare-you expression.
Mine? Like I’m going to say it out loud. Am I an idiot? You say these things out loud and one way or another something irreversibly bad happens. Like he vomits on you, or you move to Florida, or it’s printed in the school paper in the editorial section under the title “Get Real.”
“Mine’s Spenser,” Clarice says.
Shocking. “No, really?” I laugh.
“Come on. I know it’s obvious. I’m making progress, though.”
Uh-huh. What is progress, exactly? The boy doesn’t run away, he walks?
“Maggie, who’s yours?”
“I don’t know.” Maggie looks about to cry.
“Is it a girl?” I’d never gotten the lesbian vibe from Maggie, but I could be wrong.
She doesn’t even seem offended. “No. I’m just not really interested.”
“Really?” Is she a freak? Is it normal to not be crazy about the idea of penises on the premises? I mean, if guys think about sex every three seconds, then we must think about it almost as often, or more, since our brains are bigger and more efficient.
“I’m a freak.” Maggie pulls at the carpet with her fingers.
“No, you’re not.” Clarice hands her a tissue and a box of Runts.
“I think maybe I am.”
I’d tend to agree, but that doesn’t seem helpful at the moment. Maggie doesn’t seem freakish to me, but then, I’m dating a guy who thinks sharing his insecurity is a necessity for a good relationship. Maybe I’m the freak of nature.
“Why?” I ask. Seems the safest question.
Maggie shrugs. “I mean, I like looking at men. I really do get all Jell-O-ey over biceps and washboard abs, but the idea of dating feels far-fetched and too soon. I like Jesse, but I can’t even imagine it going anywhere beyond smiling.”
“My sister says her college roommate had never been on a date until her senior year when she met her senior advisor.”
Dare I ask? Clarice’s stories don’t always have a happy, pointy reason for the addition to the conversation. “And?” I can’t help myself.
“And they have like six kids and are so blissfully happy my sister had to stop speaking to her because it was disgusting.”
“Your sister has issues,” I say, feeling the need to point this out.
“Tell me about it.” Clarice bites into a chip and noncommittally licks the salt from her lips. She doesn’t seem to care what she looks like with her tongue all gyrating to get the salt crystals only she seems to be aware of. Gross.
“So, maybe you just haven’t met him. I mean, really, Maggie, you have an amazing brain, and you’re so good with computers. Here’s the deal: you have to be complete yourself before anyone else can make you more.”
Both of them stare at me like I’ve just turned into Oprah and Dr. Phil’s love child. That’s a picture.
“Thank you, Dr. Gert.” Clarice snorts chips out her nose, and it’s so gross we all roll on the floor laughing.
“Onward, Kissing Soldiers! Push play and let’s educate the masses.” I wave my hand in the general direction of appliance-dom. “Next?”
“Body Heat and 9½ Weeks.”
“Okay. Are these in color?”
“Yes.”
And hours later? Our necks hurt from watching other people kiss and pretty much what we all know now is what we knew before watching the movies. At least it was a fun
way to come to grips with the truth about the kiss. And I’m definitely not gay.
I hesitate to say this out loud and give it power, but what the hell. “I think Stephen sucks.”
“Yeah. That’s my conclusion,” Clarice says with a belch. “ ’Scuse me.”
I’m disappointed and utterly confused.
Maggie, good ol’ bookworm Maggie, asks, “Can he be taught?”
“I don’t know. Can he?” Can you teach a thing like kissing? Or is it divine knowledge shared with a few privileged souls at birth and the rest of us are destined for bad kissing?
“Yes, he can. My sister says most guys have to be taught everything.” Clarice throws a bunch of wrappers and soda cans in the trash.
“Everything?”
“Sex-wise. They’re pretty dense.”
This is comforting? How does the species propagate if boys are so bad? I guess pleasure doesn’t babies make.
“Maybe that’s it,” Maggie says.
“What?”
“Is he a virgin? Are you his first kiss?”
“I don’t know.” Talk about pressure. “I don’t think so.” Holy-Mother-of-the-Breath-Mint, I hope not.
“Stephanie and Ruth in my English class say they’ve seen him at some pretty wild parties and he’s so not a virgin.” Clarice shakes her head, shooting the idea out of the clouds.
What’s that mean? “I’m dating a man-ho?” How do I feel about that?
Maggie hands me a box of Junior Mints. “I don’t know about that, but he’s not monkish.”
“A monkfish?” Clarice asks, looking up from the diagrams of kama sutra positions Maggie printed out.
I can’t eat Junior Mints right now. They are the first food I ate with Stephen.
“How is this possible?” Clarice holds up a particularly acrobatic pose.
Here I am worrying about kissing and she’s showing me Rubik’s Cube position number eight. “I don’t know. Who’s who?”
“I can’t tell.”
“So, Stephen isn’t a virgin.” That is news. “Why did you wait until now to tell me this?” I must reel us back on topic.
“I didn’t know if it was important to you or not. Are you a virgin?”
“I’m watching black-and-white movies to find out if I’m a sucky kisser. I’m thinking the odds are good.” I don’t try to keep the ire down.
