The Kissing Coach

by Mimi Strong

“I don't have to be nice to anyone,” I said. “But it certainly is better for referrals. Which reminds me, how did you get my name? Was it through a friend?”

  “Internet search. I typed in Kissing Coach and your name came up first.”

  My cheeks flushed, my pulse pounding. It was on the internet?

  “Kidding,” he said. “I got your name from a list of coaches in the area.”

  “Right.” I fanned my face. “Of course.”

  We set up a time for the following Tuesday, but I was uncertain about the venue. The whole kissing business was not something appropriate for the coffee shop—although the couple at the next table wasn't having any problems. And in the middle of the day! It had to be Spring Fever … all the extra pollen in the air.

  “You're good at this,” Devin said. “I'm hardly panicking at all. How about you? Are you okay? I guess I dropped this all on your lap and didn't ask if you were comfortable helping with such a ridiculous thing.”

  “Don't call it ridiculous,” I said, then I repeated a line I'd had to use often, “You wouldn't have called me if it wasn't important to you.”

  “You're a cute girl. Do a lot of your clients hit on you?”

  “Not enough,” I said, then, “Sorry, bad joke. They don't, because when we begin, I email them a document with a few ground rules, and one of them is that coaches can't date their clients.”

  “I see,” he said, nodding. “That makes sense. Well, you wouldn't have to worry about me trying to kiss you or anything.”

  “Not until after you're all fixed up.”

  We grinned at each other, making awkward eye contact for an uncomfortable amount of time.

  I ducked my head down and tapped at my keyboard. “Tuesday, and we'll meet at my apartment, if that's fine by you.”

  He said it was, and I got his email address to forward the details.

  I disliked having clients in my personal space, because I didn't want them seeing I wasn't perfect. It would take me hours to clean the apartment before a meeting, but on the bright side, if it wasn't for a client coming by once a month or so, the place would never get cleaned.

  He finished his coffee as we made some small talk, then he started getting up to leave.

  The couple at the next table was in full make-out mode.

  I could feel my face twisting up in a grin as I said, “Wanna just plant one on me now, and I can chalk this up as the most successful coaching session of my career to date?”

  I stood up to shake his hand, my question lingering between us.

  He licked his lips and stared at my mouth, then he took a step closer to me.

  My mouth began to water, and my pulse pounded in my throat. The idea of kissing someone certainly caused anxiety. Perhaps he'd simply confused the normal excitement of a first kiss with something more serious?

  His face moved closer to mine.

  I was the world's greatest coach! Maybe?

  Before his lips reached mine, he staggered back again, as though bouncing off my force field.

  “Sorry,” he growled, and he ran out the door, his head down.

  I looked around the cafe, feeling ashamed. The guy had hired me to help him, and I'd gone and pushed him two steps back. What were the odds he'd even come to our next session?

  I sat down again and fought the urge to cry pitifully in public.

  Three days after my horrific meeting with Devin (horrific in the sense that it could be used as a teaching example of how not to life-coach someone), I was finally able to confess to what I'd done. I met with my best friend, Steph, for a yoga class.

  We took our usual places, at mats in the back corner. The instructor, a humorless woman with silver-shot hair, gave us a dirty look as soon as she saw us.

  “Perhaps you two shouldn't sit together,” she said.

  “We'll behave,” Steph said.

  I hissed at Steph, “Lies.”

  The woman shook her head and started lighting candles. Of all the ridiculous parts of yoga, the candles are probably the silliest. I don't think I've been to a class yet where someone didn't kick over one of the glass votives—at the end of class, when people are stumbling around. In the dark. Without their glasses.

  Steph lay back on a round bolster, broadening her chest. Steph's a blonde, like me, and we're sometimes mistaken for sisters, which I take as a compliment. We wear the same size, and when we were roommates during college, we started sharing clothes. Steph's more careful, and I swear my clothes would come back from her looking better. I'm a food dribbler, though, so I always ask about the replacement value before I borrow her stuff, just in case.

  I said to her, “Showing off your boobs today?”

  She smirked. “I gained a little weight, and they're a full A Cup now.”

  “Congratulations. Should I get you one of those Your Body is Changing books?”

  “Shut up. You're only a B Cup with padding and you know it. Get down here and tell me more about the kissing.”

  I got onto my side. We still had five minutes before class, and the instructor didn't mind us talking, as long as we were quiet.

  I'd told Steph most of the story on the walk in, so I picked up where I'd left off, saying, “I thought finding a surrogate would be easy, but there aren't that many of them around. I got a name of one woman who's local, but she was not very helpful on the phone, plus she only works with licensed sex therapists. One of which, I am not.”

  “You should ask Kat.”

  I giggled. “She's still in Boston, acting put-out and pretending to help with her sister's new baby.”

  Steph adjusted the bolster under her back. “Probably for the best. Kat would destroy the poor guy.”

  I shuffled my foam blocks around, then gave Steph my sweetest look.

  “Ew, no,” she said.

  “He's cute.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You said he wasn't.”

  “Sometimes grown-ups lie.”

  “Fine, I'll do it,” she said.

  I squealed. “You won't regret it.”

  “Ugh! Don't say that! It's like saying trust me. Now you've guaranteed I'll regret it.” She rolled over to face me and we made Tentacle Fingers together, where we make our hands look like squids, with just the fingertips touching. “Should I wear a dress? How about lipstick?”

  My mouth turned sour at the thought of her kissing Devin. “Dress normal,” I said. “I don't want him getting all turned on by you.”

  “Why not?”

  I frowned. “Because it's not professional.”

  She pulled her hands away from mine and fanned her face. “I'm actually excited. This is fun. It's so wrong, which makes it better.”

  The lights dimmed, and everyone around us got quiet. Yoga class was about to begin, and I got my usual mixed feelings of euphoria and dread as we took our first few breaths.

  After a brief meditation, we moved into our first Downward Dog. I have abnormally low blood pressure, and the first inversion of the day feels like I've jumped into a swimming pool and had water shoot up my nose. My eyes watered as I adjusted my hands and hips.

  After a few minutes, my brain would regulate my blood pressure by contracting my blood vessels, and the second one would be easier.

  I made a mental note to use this comparison to help Devin ease into kissing me. Oops! Kissing Steph.

  My mind wandered to things that would have made my cheeks red, even if I wasn't upside-down. Once Devin got over his fear of kissing, what else was he terrified of? Would I guide him and Steph through more? Wouldn't that be the worst threesome imaginable, like watching someone else eat your favorite chocolate?

  Someone—the yoga instructor—pushed down on my upper back, between my shoulder blades.

  “Imagine everything is as it should be,” she said, her voice calm and soothing in a way that made me suspicious of brainwashing attempts.

  I let her words seep into me, and pretended I was making good decisions, and not poised to ruin some poor guy's potential love l
ife with my lack of training. As a younger coach, I didn't have a ton of life experience to guide me, so I relied more on my intuition. My heart was telling me to kiss Devin, but I had to put his needs ahead of my own. I had, after all, printed out an oath from the internet and signed my name to it.

  My kissing session with Devin and Steph was set for Tuesday night, after Steph got off work from the clothing store she ran with her mother. Steph texted me repeatedly throughout the day, advising me that she hadn't eaten anything with garlic at lunch, and that she was planning to run home to shower, and that she'd bought a new deodorant just for the occasion.

  With every text, I got more and more annoyed with my best friend.

  About an hour before our meeting time, I took a break from cleaning my bathroom and sent her a message: You are WAY too excited about this. I worry your expectations are too high.

  Steph: You said he was cute. How can I be disappointed?

  Me: He's skittish. He might get sick on you. There is a very real potential for vomit here.

  Steph: OH NOES!

  Me: Okay. He probably won't barf on you.

  Steph: No, I mean OH NOES our big order came in.

  Me: Then get to work. Seeya later.

  I put my phone down and sprayed the mirror in my bathroom, appalled at the amount of goopy splashes on the glass from my flossing sessions. One day, when I could afford to hire a housekeeper, would I be the type to pre-clean the house in shame?

  My phone beeped again.

  Steph: Yeah. So. I can't make it tonight. Mom hurt her back and she needs me here to do the whole summer season changeover.

  My heart soared, and my mouth turned up in a grin.

  I texted back: Oh nooooooo! You suck.

  (But I didn't mean it.)

  I should have rescheduled my coaching session with Devin. I should have called around to a few other friends to get a volunteer. I also should have at least emailed Devin to warn him of the change in plans, but instead, I changed outfits a dozen times.

  Devin arrived downstairs, and between the time I buzzed him up and opened my front door, I sweated through my antiperspirant and then some.

  “Nice building,” he said as he entered.

  “These lofts are zoned for live and work,” I said. “So it's legal for me to meet clients here, and I can write off a portion of my rent. See, I even have a sign in my window.”

  He glanced over at the white sign in my window. “But you're on the third floor. Nobody will see it.”

  “That's fine. I don't do walk-ins.” I grinned, my pulse whooshing in my ears.

  He kicked off his shoes.

  “You can leave those on,” I said.

  “But they're already off. Should I put them back on? Would it make you more comfortable?”

  I leaned down and unlatched my Mary Jane shoes. “No, I'll take mine off. The downstairs neighbor would probably prefer it anyway.”

  He glanced around at the space, with its polished concrete floor and soaring ceiling. In the main space, I had a few chairs and a three-seater sofa on wheels. My plan with the furniture was to make it all easy to move, so I could rent the space out as a photography studio, but a dozen other people in my building had the same idea, so the market was well-served.

  Devin produced a handful of bills and handed them to me.

  “For today,” he said.

  “I can take a check.”

  He raised his thick-but-tidy eyebrows and fixed me with his chocolate-brown eyes. “Do you want me to take the cash back and mail you a check? I can also put my shoes back on.”

  I forced out a laugh and motioned for him to take a seat.

  He lay on his back on the long sofa, staring at the ceiling, his hands crossed over his chest. He said, in a Woody-Allen sort of voice, “Doctor, I keep having this recurring dream that I'm being drowned in a sea of champagne.”

  “And how does that make you feel?” I took a seat in one of the chairs. The living room was set up for a coaching session, with every seat at an angle, so my body wouldn't directly face the other person and be confrontational.

  “It tickles,” he said, moving to sit upright. “The sea of champagne.”

  “Do you want to talk about your dreams for a bit?”

  He frowned and blinked at me, his eyelashes charmingly thick and dark.

  “Dreams aren't nonsense,” I said. “They're not literal, but symbolic. For example, those dreams where you're trying to find a bathroom can signify the dreamer is having difficulty with an excess of emotions.”

  “Or that they drank too much water before bed.”

  I nodded and gave him my reassuring, professional smile. “Yes, that too.”

  “So.” He shrugged and rubbed his palms up and down his jeans. “Sorry I ran off the other day.”

  “Don't be sorry. That was my mistake, and I shouldn't have put that pressure on you. I was goofing around, and that was wrong of me.” I pressed my palms together and brought my hands to my heart center, then directed my fingertips to Devin. “I apologize to you.”

  He put his palms together. “I accept. And I'm here. So it wasn't so bad.”

  “As for today, I looked into that surrogacy thing, but didn't have any luck. I had a volunteer who was going to help tonight, but she jammed on me at the last minute.”

  He looked at me like he didn't believe a word.

  I continued, “Her name is Steph, and she's got a very gentle personality.” I grinned. “More gentle than mine. We can set up another session with her, and I thought tonight we could talk through your issue and do some visualization exercises.”

  “You mean where I close my eyes and imagine kissing? Because, I'm sorry to say I do that a lot, and it hasn't helped yet.”

  I gestured to the bottled water and juices on the coffee table. “Please, help yourself at any time. When was the first time you noticed you had an issue with kissing?”

  “Ninth grade. We were playing spin-the-bottle—totally original, I know—and I got into the closet with a girl and had a meltdown. I passed it off as claustrophobia.”

  “Did you have a crush on her?”

  “She was attractive. She looked a little like you, actually, but I'd never seen her before.”

  I tried not to react to his compliment, but kept moving it along, asking him more questions. With each question, I felt a twinge of guilt.

  I was not a therapist. My job training was in the areas of goal setting and time management. I was getting in over my head, drowning myself.

  He answered my questions, painting a picture of a single, specific anxiety. He didn't show any signs of having OCD or other phobias. Despite being just a coach, I did deal with anxieties in my work. The most common one is fear of public speaking. Some people fear it so much, they mark it higher on the stress charts than fear of death. Those people would prefer to be torn apart by wild animals than give a toast.

  Devin kept answering, but I'd run out of questions, barely ten minutes into our one-hour session.

  “Feather,” he said, leaning forward and picking up a bottle of fizzy water from the coffee table. “I'd really like to make some progress with this.”

  My mouth went dry. “I guess … since Steph isn't here … we could try something else.”

  He flashed a nervous grin. “Be gentle.”

  “Oh, Devin. You are just too cute, and funny, too. I have to say, I'm shocked some girl hasn't cornered you and planted a few on you.”

  He shuddered. “A couple have tried.”

  “And did you share your issue with them?”

  He scowled. “Would you?”

  “I guess not.” I looked around the room, trying to think of more questions, or an appropriate exercise. The treatment for getting a person over a fear or phobia is to do acclimatize them in gentle, patient stages. The correct approach is to let them walk slowly into the ocean, as opposed to dropping them straight in. What came before kissing? Hand holding.

  Devin stood and came to sit in the chair next
to mine. Staring straight ahead, he said, “What do we do first?”

  I thought about suggesting we hold hands, but it seemed too silly for words. Plus, I wanted to hold hands with him, so I couldn't trust that idea.

  I said, “First of all, we can stop any time you want. I'm not going to push you into anything. You're aware of what the goal is, and I can see you're tense. On a scale of one to ten, how high would you say your anxiety is right now?”

  “Four.”

  “Take a few very deep breaths, and tell me if your anxiety goes up, or down.”

  He breathed audibly. “Two and a half.”

  “Step one—and if we only do step one today, that'll be considered a success—let's try you bringing your face close to mine. You won't touch my lips, but you'll get within a few inches of my face.”

  “Five,” he said. “Six.” He took two more deep breaths, then said, “Okay, I'm down to three again.”

  “That's very good. Being aware of how you're feeling is extremely important. Some people ignore their emotions until it's too late and they explode. The fact that you're able to quantify your anxiety is a good sign.”

  He flashed a brief grin. “I bet you say that to all the guys.”

  I just smiled and waited. The room was cool, yet I could see Devin had a rash of sweat across his upper forehead.

  He clapped his hands. “Let's do this. An almost-kiss.” He let out a nervous laugh. “Pucker up, Princess.”

  I laughed, then covered my mouth. “I'm not laughing at you, just at the term, Princess.” I relaxed my face. “Okay, I'm ready. Would you be more comfortable if I had my eyes open or closed?”

  “How do people normally kiss?”

  “The eyes shut when you get close enough that you're not in danger of bumping noses.”

  He frowned. “Bumping noses?”

  “It's not really a problem. You just tilt your head a little to one side or the other. A little nose-bumping is fine, as long as you go slow.”

  He took another sip from the bottled water, then cracked his knuckles. “Okay, I'm ready.”

  I moved my chair closer to his, so the arms of the chairs were touching and angling together in a V-shape, and I shifted forward on my seat. I tilted up my chin, lowered my eyelids half-way, and waited.