The Art of Kissing Your Husband
Something unusual happened the other night. Henry and I spent a long time kissing. I’m sad to say this has become unusual. When it’s time to hit the sack and sex is on the menu there’s some perfunctory kissing and then we get down to business. Mostly because if the warm up takes too long we will fall asleep.
I once fell asleep with my head on his foot. I will spare you the details of what exactly I was doing down there, but let me just tell you it was a dangerous situation. Henry has Restless Leg Syndrome and could’ve kicked me in the noggin causing the kind of brain trauma found only in veteran NFL linemen.
So. What led to this amorous kissing? Henry, look away. Just. Look. Away. You don’t want to know my inner life. It will ruin the romance. Mother-in-law? This information could be deadly. Your eyes could be burned by shame fire. Just close the computer.
Okay. Here’s the truth. I was lying on the couch watching Stephen Soderbergh’s feature Traffic starring many A-list stars and Benicio Del Toro. Unlike Scarlett Johansson I have no desire to have sex with Benicio Del Toro in an elevator. I just don’t. This is Benicio on a good day:
He looks as if he doesn’t bathe and that he might be cultivating a crop of Mary Jane in his beard. Okay, I’m not being entirely forthcoming as he does resemble a certain heartthrob.
But really, he’s never been on my radar. Until that particular night watching Traffic. There was just something about his furrowed brow, devilish grin and badass tangles with the narcotrafficantes. I was a little annoyed when Henry came in and spooned me on the couch. I wanted space to relish this momentary fantasy and he was kind of interrupting that with his kindness and domestic snuggles.
I was in a Benicio coma; wanting to taste a bit of his danger.
Then a thought struck me. I could close my eyes and imagine Henry was that danger. I could imagine he’d been down in Tijuana grappling with drug lords and corrupt policia. That he could blow cigarette smoke from his nostrils like an Irish diablo. That he was an adrenaline junkie who liked to dance with the Lady Death, willing to pay the ultimate price.
So I rolled over and kissed my husband.
Not a quick peck to say goodnight. Not as a gesture of marital love. But as though I were kissing him for the first time. As though his kiss were unexplored, unexpected territory. And I think, because of my commitment to this suspension of disbelief, something new, fresh and surprising translated to my man and his experience of the kiss.
He made sounds I’d never heard him make before. He smelled and tasted different. We were in the moment and in the kiss. It didn’t need to be more than a kiss. The kiss was the experience. And it lasted a long time. A first-date amount of time.
Marriage is this amazing flower, with layers of petals sometimes opening, sometimes closed tight like a fresh new bud. We must be willing to pull back the layers to smell the new, rich, buried fragrances hidden at its core.
Sweet mother of God I am waxing poetic. It was just that kind of kiss. Thank you, Mr. Del Toro.
I challenge you to practice the fine art of kissing your husband tonight. xo
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