The first time I met him face-to-face I wanted to kiss him.
Actually, I had wanted to kiss him for some weeks; each conversation we had over email, IM, or Skype increased my desire, so that by the time I finally saw him in the flesh I was almost craven with my need to feel his lips against mine.
Ever present in my mind, though, was that the feeling might not be mutual: how can you know if there’s real chemistry until you meet offline? Not to mention, of course, the fact that he’d recently learned of my Girl with a One Track Mind infamy, and I was anxious to show him another side of me, so that he would be getting to know me, Zoe, not the obsessed-with-shagging ‘notorious’ sex diarist.
But I still wanted to kiss him, god how I wanted that.
I had a meeting in town and we agreed to meet up after that for coffee. My meeting finished early and I sat, nervously adjusting my skirt, in a coffee shop. I had partly dressed for my meeting and partly dressed for our date and struggled to find clothing that was appropriate for both. How to appear professional at a business meeting and sexy – but not too sexy – at a daytime date? I mentioned this to him over IM and he seemed shocked: had I not heard of the film Secretary? he asked. When he said that, I smiled inwardly and was reminded of a long-ago conversation I’d had with my friend Badman, about how one should test out people’s openness about sex and kink, by asking them if they’d seen Secretary. So I opted for the Maggie Gyllenhaal look of a fitted white shirt, black pencil skirt, and black peep-toe heels, and hoped that he’d like what he saw.
I waited for him to arrive and tried to catch up with work on my laptop, becoming so immersed in what I was doing that I didn’t see him until he was standing right in front of me. He was dressed – as he always is – sharply, a smart pressed grey jacket just covering a black shirt, and his Vans sneakers matching both the colour of his jacket and the salt and pepper of his hair. On his face was a huge grin, and instantly all my anxiety and worry disappeared into the air.
I jumped to my feet and our smiles matched as we each mouthed a quiet ‘hi’ amongst the hubbub of the coffee shop. We both simultaneously reached out into an embrace and we stood there a moment, our arms wrapped around each other, my face buried into his neck. I was faintly aware of the length of time we were intertwined, and how closely our bodies were pressed against the other – it was very intimate for such a public place – but I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was breathe in the delicious aroma of his skin and feel the curves of his body against mine.
At some point, we both pulled back, slightly, and then before there was time for me to question it, or become anxious or succumb to nerves, he leaned in towards me and pressed his lips against mine and the kiss I had been waiting for, been wanting so badly, was happening. The anticipation had been building for some weeks and now finally, in one swift moment, it was here.
His kiss made me tremble, as I thought it might. With the gentle but firm pressure of his lips on my mouth, I felt electricity run through me: my whole body felt like it was tingling. More specifically, though, was the throb between my legs that his kiss had elicited: it was as if my pussy had a pulse of its own; a surging blood supply; a separate beating heart. Kissing him made my entire body feel alive and I wanted to greedily devour his lips, his tongue, and his breath like each was oxygen energising me.
We spent much of the date continuing to kiss, stopping only briefly for coffee, cake and of course conversation. Our “quick coffee” turned into a ten-hour date, and neither of us wished for it to end. It was so natural, so easy and relaxed, and with him, the hours went by like minutes.
I confessed to him, a few weeks later, just how turned on I had become, through those kisses. That sitting there, in that café, with his lips against mine, had left me so horny that I wanted to fuck him then and there. I described to him how, after some hours had passed, I had gone to the toilet and my knickers were so wet from my desire for him that I had to peel them off me before I could remove them.
His kisses still do that: whenever he places his mouth on mine, my pussy almost has a Pavlovian response, and I instantly get wet. “Your lips make my lips throb”, I informed him recently, to which he grinned, mischievously, and kissed me some more.
But besides the horniness that his kisses inspire, they now affect something else much deeper, and more pronounced, in me: they make me feel like I am me; they make me feel like I am home.