It’s our third date and we still haven’t kissed. (Read about the first date: here.)
Not since my 9th grade boyfriend have I waited this long to kiss a guy.
On the first date, I’d dismissed the idea of a first kiss in a dingy, poorly lit subway station. The setting was so painfully unromantic, I couldn’t bare it.
The second date was a rushed affair, a quick Sunday brunch before I had work in the afternoon. We shared stories over eggs and he introduced me to his friends who happened to be sitting at a table across the restaurant. I smiled politely, glad he thought I was worth showing off but a bit uncomfortable I was meeting friends so soon. We folded our napkins, split the bill, and he graciously offered to walk me to work. Arriving at work, my co-workers seemed to be outside in droves. Ok, it was more like two of them, but two too many to smooch in front of. Thus date number two ended with just a quick peck.
Was I subconsciously looking for excuses not to kiss him? The thought crossed my mind. But why? He was handsome, kind, I enjoyed his company well enough. I agreed to a third date.
So here it is, the third date, notorious in many ways. Seen in some circles as the time you can start sleeping with a man without him thinking you’re a floozy. Seen in other circles as the time where if she doesn’t put out, fuhgettaboutit bro. The only circle on my mind this evening is that which lips make when puckering up for a kiss. This is it, if we don’t kiss on this third date, friend-zoning ordinances go into immediate effect. We both know it.
The date’s winding down and my lipstick has only needed perfunctory re-applications. The bartender asks if we want another round and I politely refuse. Earlier that evening we saw a play, one we both agreed to be the worst production of recent memory. Surviving such an atrocity of theater has bonded us. But not our lips. Okay, I’m obsessing about it now. This kiss is an unspoken ultimatum.
We leave the bar, he doesn’t kiss me. We start walking to the subway, he doesn’t kiss me. The same abysmal subway station where I refused to kiss him last time. The walk is half over, still no kiss. There’s a nervous energy between us. I know we fill the walk with words, but they’re just to fill the silence. We certainly don’t speak aloud what’s on our minds: This kiss is a fucking ticking time bomb! There’s too much pressure now! This isn’t fun anticipation, this is stressful! I hate ultimatums! It’s do or die buddy!
It is do or die, because now we’re just outside the subway entrance. He hasn’t kissed me. We’ve held hands the whole walk from the bar, we’ve flirted all night, we’ve even talked about how it’s weird we haven’t kissed yet. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that he wants to kiss me. But he hasn’t! And he’s not going to before we descend those subway stairs! I will not kiss in that ugly subway station, I’m not changing my mind from last time!
So I take matters into my own hands. I grab him by the shoulder and pull him toward the elevator entrance of the subway. Out of the way of pedestrian flow, I pull him in and detonate time bomb.
There’s no explosion, no fire works. There is no weakness in my knees, my feet remain very much on the ground. It’s not a bad kiss. It’s like an Oreo cookie. I rarely refuse Oreos. I mean, I’d much rather have a macaron from any number of bakeries or a chocolate chip cookie from Levain. But put a bag of Oreos in front of me and I’ll absolutely eat one, probably 3. Get me drunk and I might eat a whole sleeve. Then feel kind of disappointed in myself and wonder why I did it.
There you have a metaphor for my love life recently. I’ve been eating Oreos. I know I should stop but it’s not that easy. They just keep appearing in front of me, texting me, inviting me places. Oh, sure, I’ll have one more. Maybe Nabisco has changed it’s recipe. Ha. I know that’s not true. I know if I really want sugar, I should treat myself to a cookie that knock my socks off! Stop eating Oreos, Mary Lane, come on.
Anyone with a sweet tooth knows this is easier said then done.