I don't kiss on the mouth. Pretty Woman,
circa 1990. That line never struck me as odd.
I suppose, in the scheme of things, kissing
didn't seem so important. Not when there were
other things: sucking his dick,
wrapping a hand around my hair,
yanking back my head and biting my throat.
Fucking me, from behind, my face
pressed down into the bed covers.
What was kissing compared to being spanked
until I cried, forced to orgasm until I screamed?
But then, recently, someone told me that
kissing was a hard limit.
An absolute no-no in their ENM arrangement,
and I thought, oh. No. I don't like that.
I think that hard limit for you might be a hard limit
for me. Suddenly, kissing became everything.
A way to surrender, letting your mouth
conquer mine. Our breath intertwine. A way
for me to plead for mercy, or to show you
what I want, when I'm too shy to say the words.
A prelude to fucking. No, a foreshadowing of it.
Sensual. Intimate. To press into you, against you,
and offer myself up to you. To bite at your lip,
stealing control for a moment, and have you
take it back with aggression. With force.
Bruise my lips. Trap me between the crush
of your mouth and your hard grip in my hair.
Kissing was something small, unimportant.
But take it away, tell me I can't, and suddenly,
I don't kiss on
the lips became unfathomable.