Kissing is disgusting. It takes some nerve. Why do we do it?
In my life, I’ve known only two men who didn’t kiss. One refused to. When I put my mouth close to his, he’d pucker wanly, like a kindergartener forced to brush his dry lips against his disliked aunt, or he’d turn his head, like a toddler. He took no pleasure in silky, languid hours making out on couches or in beds, swapping spit with a pubescent’s abandon of playing Crazy Eights. He took the clichéd whore’s approach to kissing, which is to say he preferred not to. He fucked readily enough (I did it only once, on his Hell’s Kitchen studio apartment bed, his baby grand piano looking down on us like a disapproving guardian), but kissing was not his gig.