Doug: At times I have liked nice guys with overstuffed lips and no clue. One was Doug. It was sophomore year of college, and Doug and I were flirting at his fraternity. It was known as "the milk-and-cookie" frat; apparently the guys were ones we'd want to take home to Mom. Doug did not know how to kiss, so I decided to teach him. He was willing. Essentially, I outlined the following: A) Close your eyes. B) Start dry — and slow. If you were speaking, you'd be murmuring. C) Explore with lips and nose, covering any of the territory from the clavicle on up. Pay attention to the upper and lower lips, separately, and together. D) Think andante; the wind is kicking up. E) Maintain suppleness at all times; do not tense. The tongue is not a piston. Doug was an A- student.

Luke: Luke, whose lips were twice as thick as a piece of taffy, knew how to rouse the girlfriend who needed three alarm clocks: start between her legs. By the time I could say something coherent, his face would be hovering over mine, wet and mildly abraded. I would kiss him, tasting my milkweed secretions, but not before he had said, in a husky voice, "Good morning." And, really, it was. Any morning Luke woke me up between my legs was indeed a good morning.

David: One Thanksgiving weekend, my roommate and I threw a party, complete with clove-studded ham and cider with rum. My boyfriend had moved overseas, and I missed being wanted in 3-D. David flirted me into a corner over the meaning of "chiliast." Off we went to my bedroom to look it up. He held the dictionary, I held the magnifying glass. When he leaned to kiss me, I blocked with the lens. His nose made a smudge mark.

Gideon: Gideon drank far more than I could possibly understand. At an East Village garage, while we were waiting for his motorcycle to be brought down, he said, "Close your eyes, you have an eyelash." When I lowered them, his broad lips touched my eyelid so softly, this universe vanished and my senses floated off to sea. Later on my heart ripped. It was unpleasant at a capillary level.

The man at the New Riders of the Purple Sage concert: The concert was at the New York Society for Ethical Culture, and the air was thick with smoke. Everybody was getting high. A man with blonde hair came into view. My lips itched. I strode over to his bench. We swayed to the music. He put his arms around me — insta-boyfriend? — and then we began. . . making out. It did cross my mind that I was kissing a total stranger and that my older sister was standing fifty feet away and that I was feeling like a high-school girl in the bleachers at Palladium, but the revelation that I was the oldest boy-crazy girl in New York hadn't yet fallen upon me fully.

Denis: When Denis and I kissed, my body was so charged — three a.m., parked on a street in Versailles — that I gasped several times. We met at a wedding. I was drawn to the knot of his tie; somewhere in its creases, it seemed to contain just the right note of rage. In the car, kissing him was like eating chocolate pudding with my hands.

The man I kissed last weekend: He kissed goodbye so sweetly, I want to kiss him hello.  n°

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
	Elizabeth Manus is a writer who grew up in Manhattan, where she currently lives and works on a play. She is always on the lookout for strong characters. She can be reached at elizabeth.manus@gmail.com.