A kiss is still a kiss…

I’ve always enjoyed kissing. In fact I think I may enjoy a good kiss even more than I enjoy a good shag. A kiss to me always seems so much more intimate. But also a kiss is something that you can do anywhere in public without fear of arrest. It’s for that reason that a kiss is allowed to be a message to all who are present that shows the love, the affection, the passion or the lust or maybe even just the drunkenness shared by two people.

The last time I shared a public kiss with someone was the Friday before last. It was a good kiss, a deep passionate kiss fuelled undoubtedly by lust and more than a little alcohol. Above all though it was a good kiss, matched, on that evening, only by each kiss that followed. It helped that she was tall. I’m quite tall myself and there’s nothing which curtails a good snog more than the inevitable crick in the neck suffered when getting off with a girl just a few inches too short for just a few minutes too long. As I said, the girl was tall, around 5’ 9 ½” so I heard someone say, and I wouldn’t doubt it, she seemed only a few inches shorter than me and I’m 6’1”.

She whispered in my ear (well, not whispered, the music played far too loud for a whisper to be audible) the words that every man of a certain disposition longs to hear. The five magic words “Let’s go and have sex.” I bid a hasty goodbye to all my friends and swiftly left the Soho bar where I had previously been drinking my way thorough my overdraft. She followed me up the stairs to the welcoming arms of Greek Street where we briefly continued our heated bout of snogging. We stopped; she had to go back inside for a moment. I was on my own. My first reaction was to check my watch after which I reached for my mobile phone intent on calling everyone who knew would be up at this late hour, just to keep them informed. Obviously they’d want to know what I was up to. It had been quite a while since I’d pulled a girl; I hadn’t done it since I met my last girlfriend 5 years ago, so I was more than a little nervous. The girl appeared at the doorway and walked slowly over in what at the time I tried to interpret was a seductive way. In reality she’d had so much to drink that if she walked any faster she’d have probably fallen over. I could see that the magic was dying very quickly. Practical concerns came to the fore. “Do you have any condoms” she asked. I rummaged through my wallet and found my customary single prophylactic. To be honest it was a miracle that I still bothered to carry even one around. My hit ratio hadn’t been good of late, though I suppose that’s down more to lack of trying than lack of success. My single rubber, however, failed to impress the young lady. “Just one” she said incredulously “you’re not a virgin are you?” “What?” now I was being incredulous. “Why do you say that?” Well surely only a virgin would carry only a single bloody condom.”

I was fast loosing any passion that I had felt for the girl. I’m lacking enough in confidence without being accused of somehow regaining my virginity. It was at this point that I started to notice exactly how drunk she was. A few weeks prior to the events of that Friday evening I’d had a conversation with friends about the ethics of sleeping with a ridiculously drunk girl, and this previously hypothetical conversation was now weighing heavily on my mind.

“Are you sure you’re okay to be doing this. I mean, you’ve had quite a lot to drink.”

I may as well end the story there. Between her mocking tone and my paranoid concern the mood was now dead. Sex, was clearly not on the cards.

We went to Bar Italia where I used my last remaining cash to buy her a coffee and panini. The panini was gorgeous, but I could handle little more than a mouthful despite her protestations and indeed sulking (“I bring you hear to the famous Bar Italia and you can’t be bothered to eat anything.”). I always get like that when I meet a girl. The first thing that goes is my appetite swiftly followed by my ability to reason.

We talked for a while, and after a rocky start we began to get on. However, most of the evening, which was fast becoming the early hours of the following morning, were spent mixing with the eclectic crowd of writers artist, film producers and bikers that frequent Bar Italia at that time of day.

It was 6am and the night was drawing to a close. Bar Italia was finally shutting up shop for a while and the undoubtedly fatigued night staff were being replaced by the fresh, new day staff.

It was time to stay goodbye. She could have left much sooner, but she insisted on waiting for me whilst I stuck it out long enough for the first Tube. Her taxi was waiting to whisk her a few miles away to her home when I finally said in what friends have observed is my best “Hugh Grant” style “Actually, I was wondering… um. Oh, no, it doesn’t matter.” “No, what is it?” she asked in a manner that convinced me that she actually wanted to know. No, she must have already known what I was going to ask, she just wanted me to ask. “I was wondering if maybe you’d like to go out some time.” Sure, yeah.” She said wearily. I presumed, at the time her tiredness was as a result of it being 6am. “Okay” I said “shall I give you my number?” “Actually it might be easier if you take mine. It’s going to be difficult for me to get to my phone.” Indeed it would be, in one hand she had a massive handbag and in the other an umbrella that when unfurled looked more like a parasol. “Oh, right, ok.” I was surprised. Surely the fact that she had chosen to give me her number was a positive sign. After all she could have taken my number and then simply never called it. So I got her number and she got in her cab. I waited a moment for the cars’ engine to start and waved to her as she pulled away. She even waved back. And that is, and probably will be, the last I saw of her.

She had a somewhat curt manner, but couldn’t help but like her. A few days later I saw a slim girl wearing a luxuriant dress and a pair of large rimmed Christian Dior sunglasses, looking very much like she was trying to impersonate Audrey Hepburn in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”. Yet despite her finery she still didn’t manage to be half as elegant as the girl who wore only a simple medium length skirt and a green vest top with accompanying green necklace. The girl that I’d waved goodbye to outside of Bar Italia on a warm Soho night was definitely special.

The following day (though not really since it had become so late that that it was now early again) I sent her a text just to see if she got home ok. She never replied. After a few days I decided that she must be alright otherwise, as the last person to see her, I’d have invariably had the Old Bill on my doorstep asking questions. After a few days of agonising over my self doubt, a fair bit of soul searching and, bending the ears a little too much of some very understanding friends, I decided that I would call her. When she answered it was clear that I’d caught her whilst she was out. So I got straight to the point and asked her if she’s like to go out sometime next week (this week. She told me yes and suggested that I text her to let her know what days I’d be free on. The thing is she said this without a hint of enthusiasm. It was as if she were simply scheduling a dentist’s appointment. I texted her a couple of days later to let her know when I’d be free. It’s few days after that and I haven’t received a reply. I’m not exactly hopeful.

Well, the upshot of the story is that I now have a renewed sense of hope (well at least I still can get a girl to get off with me even if I cant manage to actually sleep with her) and a wallet containing not one, not two, but three condoms. Now, all I need to do is get lucky like that again. Well, maybe just a little bit luckier

I’m submitting this now. It’s 4am and I’m too tired to check it over properly, so apologies to all those who have to bear my bad spelling/grammar/writing style. I’m sure that I’ll get around to fixing it later.