The Kissing Coach

by Mimi Strong

  Her paint roller started to move again, making a sticky sound against the wall.

  “You should have been using birth control.”

  “Yeah, well guys who rape you when you're passed out don't ask a lot of questions.”

  Her voice cold, she said, “I hope you went to the police.”

  “I didn't even know what happened until I started to miscarry.”

  “That's just awful. Why are you telling me this now?”

  My entire body went numb. Of course she was turning this around to be all my fault. Of course. People don't change, not unless they want to.

  I descended the ladder—slowly, because I couldn't feel my feet.

  “I'm sorry,” I said.

  She kept painting, her face in profile a stone mask.

  I picked up my purse and headed toward the door. “It's not going to happen again.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “I'm on birth control pills, and I'm careful about who I drink with.”

  Her face moved, just a tiny bit. We weren't even halfway done the primer, let alone the painting.

  I grabbed my purse, opened the door, and let myself out.

  One of those poster phrases popped into my head. The truth will set you free.

  As I walked down the stone path, away from the townhouse, I didn't feel free. I didn't feel anything.

  FEATHER'S TOP STYLE TIPS

  1. You can't have too many jeans that make your butt look KAPOW.

  2. When shopping for clothes, be willing to accept help from the staff. Ask someone whose look you admire what new items she's going to spend her next check on. (This may not work if you wear the same size.)

  3. If you need double-sided tape to keep things from popping out, perhaps you should consider a different outfit.

  PART II

  By Tuesday, I had recovered from watching my best friend make out with a cute boy, as well as from my not-atypical visit with my mother. I felt like myself again, and I was even looking forward to my next session with Devin.

  He buzzed me from the intercom promptly at seven, and when I opened the door, he handed me a bouquet of flowers, all purple.

  “We had too many,” he said apologetically. “Someone at the hotel over-ordered.”

  “The hotel? You mean where you work?” I stood to the side and let him in.

  “Yes, where I work. I manage my parents' hotel. Did you not google me?”

  I smiled. “I only do that before I've met someone, just to look out for the wildly crazy ones.”

  He raised one dark eyebrow, his chocolate-brown eyes dazzling. “But moderately crazy is okay?”

  “Moderately crazy is how I make a living.” I took the flowers and rushed around the kitchen looking for a vase.

  “Here,” Devin said, opening a cupboard and pulling down a tall, narrow, orange-hued teapot. “Put them in here. It suits your place, and you. Unconventional.”

  I plopped the purple flowers and greenery into the teapot's opening, and we both stood in silence, admiring the arrangement. Against the poured-concrete counter, the Creamsicle-orange teapot holding purple flowers looked like a staging prop for selling upscale condos.

  Devin said, “What's on the agenda today, boss?”

  “We need to talk about what happened last week.”

  “I ran off like a fucking coward.” He dropped his head. “Excuse my language.”

  “How about next time you feel that urge to run, you see if you can't hold still just a minute longer, and tell me how you're feeling?”

  He looked up thoughtfully. “You make everything sound easy.”

  “Communicating how you're feeling will get easier over time.” I walked him over to the living room zone of the loft, and took a seat in one of the chairs as he took the sofa.

  I said, “Hey, I heard a great line the other day that might help re-frame your feelings in a positive light.”

  He gave me a crooked smile. “Hit me with your best inspirational slogan.”

  “If you're not afraid of kissing someone, they're not worth kissing.”

  Devin's head bobbed, the front strands of his straight, black hair swinging into his eyes.

  He said, “Sounds like something my mother would say. She used to tuck me in and kiss me goodnight, every night.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “It was nice.”

  “I remember from our previous session, you said you're an only child. How do you get along with your parents?”

  “Things were always fine.”

  “Were?”

  “Oh, they're dead.”

  I tried to keep my face from reacting, but hearing Devin say those words hurt. Being extremely empathic is not without its drawbacks. With my sensitivity, sometimes I swear I feel other people's pain more vividly than my own.

  “I'm so sorry to hear that,” I said. “How long ago did you lose them?”

  He pointed at me. “I can see your little gears turning. They passed away just over two years ago, so it was after my problem started.” His eyes unfocused and he stared through me. “It happened so fast, they didn't suffer. Vehicle accident. They were T-boned by a commercial truck.” He looked down at his hands. “They think my mother was driving.”

  As I imagined how bad the wreckage must have been for them to not know who was driving, I felt the tears welling up. I cleared my throat and looked up to the ceiling. As I always do when emotions threaten to sink me, I asked myself a list-type question. How many months until Christmas? I recited the months in my head, counting as I went.

  Devin said, “Ooh, nuts!”

  I looked down and saw him scooping up a handful of salted-in-shell peanuts I had out in a wide bowl on the coffee table.

  He snapped one open, then paused. “Sorry. Are these for guests? Or are they just decorative?”

  “Help yourself,” I said, and I ran over to the kitchen to get him a second bowl for the shells.

  “You should have some, too,” he said. “That way we'll both have peanut breath.” He glanced up at me through his thick, dark eyelashes. “I'm feeling confident there's going to be a lot of kissing today. Just sayin'. Prepare yourself.”

  I took a handful of peanuts and started shelling them.

  “Devin, I think we should re-visit your goals. What would it take for you to feel our work has been successful?”

  He kept shelling peanuts. “If I can kiss a girl, I think I can take things from there.”

  “Have you done other things?”

  He smirked. “I got a hand job once. That was awkward. But if this is your way of asking if I'm a virgin, then yes, I am.”

  “And does that worry you?”

  His eyebrows shot up, his eyes dancing with amusement. “No. Does it worry you?”

  Now it was my turn to laugh nervously. “We live in a very sexual society, and it may be surprising to some women, but … I'd say so long as you're open about communicating your needs, there wouldn't be a girl out there who'd have an issue with you being a virgin.”

  “First things first.”

  “So, this girl who gave you a hand job. How exactly did that happen?”

  “Are you going to grill me about hand jobs or are you going to come over here and coach me?” He patted the sofa next to him. “What's with you and red, anyway?” He stroked the red ultrasuede fabric.

  “Red is energetic.”

  “That coat you have, with the hood. It makes you look like a girl from a fairy tale.”

  I got up and walked over to the sofa, taking the middle cushion, next to Devin.

  I said, “You mean Little Red Riding Hood? The one who gets eaten by a wolf.”

  “Did you ever see the movie Freeway? It's sort of a modern take on the tale. Only in the movie, Red is not a victim. She kicks some serious ass.”

  I smiled. “Sounds like a good one. You like movies about kick-ass girls?”

  “I never thought about it that way.”

  I whispered, as though giving him
a secret side note from another person, “Put your arm across the back of the couch, behind me.”

  His eyebrows tented up and he fidgeted for a moment. “Oh, are we doing this?”

  I nodded and whispered, “Keep talking.”

  He shifted around and slipped his right arm behind me, across the back of the sofa. His thumb made contact with my upper arm, and he didn't pull it away.

  “Movies,” he said. “Superhero movies don't do anything for me, but I do like comics and graphic novels.” He whispered, “Too geeky?”

  I whispered back, “Never too geeky for the right girl.”

  He swallowed hard and licked his lips. He stared at my mouth, then said, “You're pretty.”

  I was so caught off guard by the compliment, I stammered for a moment, my first instinct being to argue with him, to insist I wasn't pretty. I'd been called sexy, and attractive, but pretty wasn't a word I was used to hearing. Pretty was for other girls.

  “Thank you,” I murmured. “The first thing I noticed about you is your eyes. You have the most beautiful eyes. And cheekbones.”

  “I'd like to kiss you now,” he said.

  I nodded and leaned in toward him, lifting my chin.

  He said, “Two-thirds of people lean to the right when kissing. I read that online, and it sounds about right.”

  “Are you stalling?” I smiled sweetly and batted my eyelashes.

  He tilted his head to the right, so I tilted mine. I held still, my posture rigid, committed to letting him come to me.

  Time slowed as he moved in toward me. Our lips touched. I held my mouth absolutely still, but snuck open one eyelid to check on him. His forehead wasn't sweating, and he seemed to still be breathing, albeit shallowly.

  His lips stayed touching mine, and then they moved slightly, parting just enough to gather my lower lip within them. I let my jaw relax and my lips part, oh-so-slowly.

  He had one arm around my shoulder, and the free one came over to my lap. I opened my hand and he slipped his palm against mine. His lips moved again, and he was sucking my upper lip between his. I let him.

  He breathed out audibly and shifted his whole body on the couch. He mashed his lips against mine. I slowly took his lower lip between mine and ran the tip of my tongue against his lip.

  He moved, but not to pull away. He released my hand and reached over to my hip, then pulled me toward him.

  I pulled away just enough to whisper, “Is this okay?”

  His voice low and gravelly, he said, “Come and sit on my lap so we don't have to twist our necks.”

  “Good idea.” I pulled my face away so we wouldn't bump heads, and I turned to straddle him, my knees bent and my legs parallel and on either side of his thighs. I was wearing a pair of jeans with some stretch in them, thank goodness.

  He held up his hands between us. “Look. Not even shaking.”

  “We can stop for the day if you want.”

  “What do you want?”

  I glanced over his shoulder, out the window. “I want what's best for you,” I lied.

  “I'm not afraid,” he said.

  He reached out and ran his fingertip across my lower lip, then the ridges of my upper lip.

  He said, “If we were on a date, what would you do next?”

  “More kissing. Maybe some tongue?”

  He clenched his jaw, then relaxed it. He put both hands on either side of my face and brought me to him.

  Now his lips were familiar to me, like home, like a hall you've walked many times with all the lights out. Most people have a special sense that allows them to find their lover's lips, even in the darkest stretch of night.

  His hands moved down to my thighs, sending a thrill through my body. A desire I'd been denying for a long time threatened to take over my body, to roll my hips and send me those last few inches forward on his lap, so I could nudge against him and feel his desire growing.

  I tried to focus only on sensations from the chin up, but good kissing is something you feel all over your body.

  He pulled back. “Did I do something wrong? You made a noise.”

  I laughed, feeling my cheeks grow hot from embarrassment. “I think I moaned a little. Don't worry. If a girl makes a noise like that, you're doing everything right.”

  “Good. I liked it.”

  He tilted his chin up, and I moved in, drawing my lips closer to his until we were kissing again. I didn't want to ever stop kissing him.

  We kept kissing, pulling apart only to try again with our heads tilted to the left, to see what that was like. We agreed we were both right-tilters.

  After we were warmed up, he got brave enough to put his tongue in my mouth, and as we kissed deeply, I reveled in it, but I was also sad. He was past his block, and today might be our last session. I kissed him with desperation. I kissed him with ferocity. I kissed him with anguish, and he didn't pull away.

  His hands moved from my legs to my hips, then my back. His fingers slipped under the edge of my T-shirt, and then they were on my bare back, skin on skin.

  I moaned and closed the distance between us, pressing my chest against his and rocking my hips.

  With one hand, I reached down between us and grabbed the hardness in his jeans. He gasped, but didn't stop kissing me. I squeezed the length of him as his tongue probed my mouth.

  Of his own volition, he pulled his lips from mine and moved over to my ear, then down the side of my neck, kissing and sucking on my skin.

  His hands moved around from my back to my front, under my shirt, then up, over my bra. He kept kissing my neck, flicking my pulse points with his tongue.

  My hands were now on the waist of his jeans, pulling at the edge of the fabric. My fingers found the top button and started trying to unlatch it. The button popped open suddenly, and I reached for the top of the zipper.

  He squirmed under me and stopped kissing my neck. I felt his hands on my hips, and then he was lifting me up and back, and then I was standing before him, confused.

  His eyes were wide. “That was very convincing,” he said.

  “Very.” I smoothed out my shirt and backed away, moving all the way over to my chair, where I took a seat.

  He frowned. “Does it … usually go like that?”

  “A makeout session? Well, everyone's different.” I cleared my throat and grabbed a bottle of water from the table between us. The plastic seal on the lid made a satisfying crack as I opened it. “Once you've got a girl straddling your lap like that, things can move fairly quickly.”

  “Of course.” He looked uncomfortable, but not in the usual way. He looked like someone who'd been caught doing something bad.

  “How's your anxiety level now?” I asked.

  He squirmed and pulled down his T-shirt to cover the upper area of his jeans. “About a three, but it's a different three.”

  Did that really just happen? Had I grabbed at his crotch while we were kissing? I had. Oh, the horror. The horror washed over me in waves. I had totally fondled his private bathing suit area! The horror.

  “Feather?”

  “Yeah, that went a little far. I didn't mean to, um ...”

  He looked at me sideways. “What? We were kissing, and then, I think maybe my hands were roaming around.” He licked his lips. “It's a bit blurry. I don't know what happened, but it was nice. Natural.”

  “I don't think I should sit on your lap again.” Or if I do, I should tie my hands behind my back.

  “Hmm.”

  “But you did well! I must be an excellent coach.” Ultra-cheesy grin. “Be sure to pass my card along to all your friends. I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this kissing part, of course.”

  His eyes widened. “No kidding. I'd say the same to you.”

  “What happens between us is confidential. I won't tell anyone.” Guiltily, I realized that wasn't entirely true. I had told Steph, but she didn't know him at least.

  He shifted to the edge of the couch. “So, same time next week?”

  I held s
till in my chair. I thought we were finished, that he was cured, adequately coached. To keep taking money from him, for kissing this gorgeous, sweet man—that would be wrong. Plain wrong. Especially if I sat on his lap and tried to undress him.

  He said, “So, Tuesday?”

  I shouldn't. Second base and crotch-grabbing? No, no, it's gone too far already.

  “You bet! Next Tuesday at Seven!”

  Over the next few days, I thought about calling another coach, one of my mentors. I imagined myself explaining the situation, admitting I'd been kissing a client.

  As you may have guessed already, thanks to big-mouthed Chuck, this wasn't the first time I'd kissed a client. (Chuck is the former client I ran into at the coffee shop the first time I met Devin.)

  Chuck had been resistant about getting a haircut. In retrospect, I think he was willing to cut off the man-ponytail, but sensed my excitement to see the transformation, and used it as a bargaining chip. He claimed he was bad at kissing and needed some pointers. I politely refused, but put the offer on the table later, when he was being difficult about the hair.

  Now, before you go thinking I'm a big meanie and I make people over the way I want them to be, I have to tell you three things.

  1. At our first session, Chuck listed a haircut as one of his top goals.

  2. I didn't want to kiss him.

  3. Hair grows back, people. Seriously, it's just a haircut, not getting a face tattoo.

  It was a good thing for his future girlfriend that he got the kissing lessons, too. Chuck had the strange concept that the man's goal was to use his tongue to drill into the woman's mouth as though excavating for a vein of rich mineral deposits.

  How I trained him was through an unorthodox method that I am both deeply ashamed and incredibly proud of. I took the super-annoying buzzer out of my copy of that party game, Taboo, and used it to condition Chuck. I held the buzzer to his ear, and whenever his tongue threatened to gag me during a kissing session, I buzzed the thing in his ear.

  Now, if you're interested, you can practice a thought-stopping technique yourself by keeping an elastic band on your wrist, and snapping it when you catch yourself falling into bad habits. However, if your lifestyle allows you to have a person follow you around with a Taboo buzzer at your ear, I do recommend it for immediate results.