I’ve been in California a few weeks now and I’ve been texting this fella back home. We’ve been getting on properly well. It’s nice in a low effort sort of way. There’s nothing heavy in it, we’ve met a few times and things have got personal on occasion. He’s got a kid and I’ve said hi over a video call once or twice but that’s as far as it goes. He’s just a nice bloke. I text him and sometimes he answers straight away, other times he leaves it for hours and just drops an emoji. His moods shift a bit but never in a nasty way. He just doesn’t care. Women magic doesn’t work on him. He’s been a very useful tool, shall we say. Nothing serious. Or so I thought.
Last night I was in Perch LA, that posh spot on Hill Street down-town with the rooftop views and the expensive cocktails. I’d had a couple of glasses of something red and expensive and I was feeling loose. This guy started chatting to me at the bar. Tall, decent looking, the usual California polish. We flirted a bit, nothing deep, and at some point we ended up outside near the lifts kissing. And it was gross. Not just average gross. Proper bad. His tongue was everywhere, jabbing at the floor of my mouth like he was trying to excavate something, then slamming against the roof like a wet slug having a seizure. Normally I’d have just laughed it off or gently redirected but this time it hit different. His hands were up in my top like a rocket, he’s grabbing what little I have in there, he’s all around my ass, it was just gross. Because now I’ve had a proper good kiss. The kind that makes your knees actually weaken and your brain go quiet. And once you’ve had that, everything else feels like amateur hour.
I keep thinking about the first proper kiss I had with the bloke back home. We were in a hotel and I went for it like I always do when I want something. I’m not shy about making the first move. But this time he didn’t let me. He grabbed my braids, wrapped them tight around his fist and pulled me straight up onto my tiptoes so I couldn’t get any closer. Just held me there, looking down at me calm as anything while I squirmed and laughed and tried to close the gap. I was calling him every name under the sun and he didn’t even blink. Then he started with these tiny, slow kisses. Just his lips brushing over my cheeks, my chin, the corner of my mouth, dragging it out like he had all night and nowhere to be. I was snapping at him like a feral thing trying to catch his mouth properly and he kept pulling back just enough to keep me frustrated. My stomach was doing flips. It was the most annoying, delicious thing I’ve felt in ages.
He kept that up for what felt like ten solid minutes. Every time I thought I had him he’d shift and start again somewhere else. My hands were on his chest trying to pull him in and he just kept that grip on my hair, controlling the whole thing without ever raising his voice. Then he let go of my braids, turned his back on me like it was nothing and said he needed a shower. Just walked off. I was stood there proper raging. I don’t like being played with. That’s supposed to be my job. I was calling him every rude name I could think of, proper bratting out loud, and he didn’t even answer. Just shut the bathroom door.
I don’t like being fucked with, and I certainly don’t like being bossed I over. I’m the one with the pussy. The trouble was, he wasn’t after it. At all. It’s really hard to deconstruct this bloke, but I was so angry, frustrated and really deeply offended. I’m not used to this stuff at all. I started gathering my stuff, I was going to leave. I was like fuck you, I’ll go home then, prick. Then he speaks.
“Emma, you still have your clothes on.” I sat there for a minute thinking what the actual fuck is this guy on. Who does that? But something in me just did it. I stripped off and got under the covers. Ten minutes he made me wait. I was crawling out of my skin. When he finally came out his hair was wet and his t-shirt and joggers were damp because apparently some men just don’t bother with towels. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, nothing special, but it worked on me in a way I can’t explain. Sometimes the least put together thing is the hottest.
He slid straight in, grabbed my braids again to hold my head exactly where he wanted it, and kissed me for twenty, maybe thirty minutes straight. I was completely naked and he never once touched me below the neck. His hands stayed on my face, my jaw, the back of my head, keeping me exactly where he wanted. His kisses were dry, barely any tongue, while mine was trying to force its way into his mouth like I’d lost all control. Every time I pushed too hard he’d pull back, smile against my lips, and start again slower. I didn’t even realise what he was doing at the time but he was training me. Every time I got greedy he corrected it. And the madder it made me the wetter I got. I’ve never been kissed like that in my life. It was control dressed up as patience and it drove me insane in the best way.
The contrast with the slug kiss from last night is actually ridiculous. I used to think most blokes kissed roughly the same once things got going. A bit of tongue, a bit of hands, some enthusiasm, job done. Turns out that’s not true at all. Some of them are just going through the motions like they’re trying to win a race. Others know exactly what they’re doing and they enjoy making you wait for it. The difference is night and day. One leaves you feeling a bit meh and slightly damp in the wrong way. The other leaves you lying there after he’s gone, still buzzing, still annoyed, still thinking about it hours later.
I think I’ve accidentally raised the bar too high for myself and now my love life is properly ruined. Because how am I supposed to go back to normal kissing after that? How am I supposed to sit through another evening with some perfectly nice fella who thinks enthusiasm is the same as skill? I’ve had a taste of what it feels like when someone actually knows how to make your body react without even touching you properly and everything else feels like a downgrade. It’s not even about the sex we haven’t had yet. It’s about the way he made me feel completely out of control while somehow staying completely in control himself. That’s the bit I can’t stop thinking about. I’m used to men losing control around me. All you girls out there have this power, you all know it, own it, use it. But sooner or later you’ll meet a guy, and he’ll take it away from you, and it’s the weirdest, most annoying, most hot and delicious feeling you’ll ever have.
I keep replaying the whole thing in my head. The way he pulled my hair just enough to keep me on my toes. The way he kissed everywhere except where I wanted it until I was ready to beg. The way he walked off to have a shower like my frustration was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week. And then coming back and kissing me for half an hour without ever letting me rush it. I’ve never been trained like that before. I’ve never wanted to be trained like that before. And now I can’t stop wondering what else he could do if he put his mind to it.
It’s messing with my head in ways I didn’t expect. I came out here thinking I was keeping things light and casual with him. Just a bit of texting, a few meets, nothing that would actually matter. But now I’m lying in a hotel bed in California thinking about a man back home who barely texts back half the time and I’m comparing every other kiss to his. That’s not casual. That’s dangerous. Because if this is what just a kiss does to me, what happens when we actually sleep together? What happens when he decides to take his time with that too?
I used to think I had decent standards. Turns out my standards were just average because I hadn’t experienced anything better. Now I have and it’s shifted something. I don’t want to settle for slug kisses and rushed hands any more. I don’t want to pretend enthusiasm is the same as real skill. And I definitely don’t want to keep pretending that this thing with him back home is just convenient and low stakes when my brain is clearly already invested more than it should be.
When I get back I need to get this guy out on a proper date or something. Not just the quick meets and the texting. A real one. Because I’m thinking about him more than I should be and I need to work out if this is actually something or if I’ve just got myself worked up over a really good kiss and some clever teasing. Either way, I can’t keep pretending it’s nothing. Not after last night made everything else feel like amateur hour. My love life might be messed up now but at least I know what I’m not willing to settle for any more. And that’s something. Can you miss something that you’ve that never had or know nothing about. That’s the question I keep asking myself. I think that after all years, I might need a boyfriend.