When Tongues Attack!
There’s a number of reasons why Brandon and I ended our dating before the point of actually calling it dating. In fact, I think we called it “seeing.” That’s what boys do when they want to let you know that someone is more than a friend, but they are not willing to deactivate their Gay.com account yet.
When I’m “dating” Brandon, it means I’m not in love but I’m open to the possibility of it getting there. “Seeing” Brandon means if you have a cute friend that you want to introduce me to, I won’t be opposed.
There are a number of reasons why I stopped seeing Brandon. I wasn’t ready after my last breakup. He wanted a husband. I wanted someone who could go out without cocaine. OK, screw that. There was one reason and one reason only.
Brandon was a bad kisser. Like really bad. Even visualizing it enough to write this article makes me shiver.
What was so bad? He led with the tongue. Yep. Gross. Adding the tongue in kissing is like adding cinnamon to French Toast. When sprinkled in and mixed correctly, you can’t get enough of that carby goodness. Too much and you want to spit it out. And if your first bite is just a big ol’ chuck of cinnamon, you may even throw up.
I, for one, like the cinnamon to hit after I’m a few bites in. In this case, allow the lip action to get underway, and then slowly introduce the tongue into the fold. Brandon didn’t follow the same M.O. in locking lips. Instead, he threw his best tongue forward and allowed the rest to follow. Before our lips were within a half an inch of making contact, Mr. Lingua was already shoving his way in. No knocking. No offering to buy my mouth dinner first. I felt mouth-raped.
I couldn’t believe it. How could someone that I felt such a connection with leave me thinking my mouth would have a better time at the dentist?
This wasn’t the first occurrence that romance went south once connection turned to kissing. Years back I had a first date with Austin. We had fun. Fun enough to journey up to his condo, open a bottle of wine, and commence a makeout session. A minute or two in I realized: My face is drenched. Sure, when saliva is swapped, occasionally some lands outside the intended parameters. However, this was not that. In fact, I wondered if any saliva had actually landed in my mouth at all! From nose to chin, I was practically dripping. I turned our making out into a quick hugging/feelsie session so that I would have an opportunity to dry my face off on his shoulder.
“But Mikey, how do you know it’s not you?” Look, I’m not going to say I’ve kissed a lot of boys… but I’ve kissed a lot of boys.
With Brandon, I had no idea how to proceed. I couldn’t continue on in a relationship where I would be terrified every time my man went in for a wet one. Do I tell him? The friend consensus was, “Yes. Tell him. He deserves to know so he can fix it.”
I invited him over one night so that I could begin the discussion. Then perhaps we could practice? I was watching Top Gun when he arrived. He turned to the TV and said, “Oh, I love Top Gun! That movie taught me how to kiss!” That’s when I realized I was screwed.
I haven’t seen Brandon, or watched Top Gun, since.