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Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Writing Prompt - Pucker Up

by Amy Robinson

Kiss your inner critic goodbye! February is full of fun ways to get your writing projects done like our steamy Erotic Writing class, irreverent Anti-Valentines Day workshop, and fantastic Stranger Than Fiction class! They are filling up fast, call 323-333-2954 to RSVP before all the seats are spoken for!

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Writing Prompt: Make a list of 5 memorable kisses for yourself or your character. How about a first kiss or a forbidden kiss? Add a sensory detail to it (smell, taste, sound, touch, sight), then write about it for 10 minutes. Describe the kiss in great detail: was it soft or sloppy, passionate, or comforting and chaste? What was it like outside--cold, steamy? What song was playing on the radio? Then post your smooching story in the comments of this blog.

Comment on this blog! What memorable kiss have you, or your character, shared?
Post your 10 minute write in the comments, and you could win a free class!

7 comments:

Writing Pad said...

My first kiss was almost a disaster--Brian Gerber and I almost locked braces after The BBYO Bahama Bash. I thought that I knew how to kiss on the lips. I had watched the leads in the Dracula Spectacula at school do it. I had imagined how soft Brian's lips would feel against mine, like the skin of a nectarine. But instead, I didn't have a clue, and when metal brackets are involved, you definitely want to be careful or blood could be drawn.

The last kiss that I remember is that first kiss with my husband on our first date. I remember it in slow motion. He pulled his Buddy Holly glasses off and leaned over me on his futon. His fu man chu felt tickly and prickly against my chin. He smelled like soap and Arrid Extra Dry. He tasted sweet, like soy sauce, potstickers, and fortune cookies. I was hooked as soon as he took off those Buddy Holly glasses. I knew that I'd never want to kiss anyone else after that moment.

Marilyn

Anonymous said...

Looking at me, you’d say, ‘Uptight married lady, whiter than mayonnaise on Wonder Bread.’ But I have tasted passion, the deepest carnal yearnings a body can press into the mouth of another. Hot? Yes. Wet? Yes. But I walked away.

Through a mistake—it was mine, I readily admit it—I enrolled in a small Christian college in the South. Being from a Northern clime, I was not accustomed to Bible study on Saturday night and compulsory chapel on Sunday. Those of us who drank had to do so furtively. We gathered in the apartment of the one student who had somehow gotten a waiver to live off campus. My best friend from the dorm and a dozen foreign guys who also did not realize it was a Christian college when they enrolled, we were refugees of a sort, our own little society with no laws or oversight.

I remember our hostess had painted a crown of thorns in her own blood. I remember it looked brown in the dim party lights, but we all agreed it was brilliant because, of course, we understood the commentary on the Christian college, the rules, the bloodlessness.

I went to the party with my best friend Joanie. Joanie wanted to go because the hottest man on campus, an El Salvadoran with panther eyes, might be there. She was infatuated with him. She used the word infatuated because we were too mature to be in love with guys we didn’t know. We could separate lust from love, we were, after all, in college.

At this point I need to explain who I was then and who I was perceived to be. I was just as uptight then as I am now, but I was assigned all the attributes with which Southerners stereotype Northerners: Loose morals, hot-to-trot, racy. You name it, the broad flat vowels that came out of my mouth made me a harlot in the (small) minds of my Southern Christian college classmates. These were people, I kid you not, who use the word harlot with no irony intended.

So being a harlot, or being known as a harlot, has some advantages. Without wearing makeup or even shaving your legs with great regularity, you still get attention. This was the case for me when Joanie and I walked into the party. My reputation had preceded me and, after a few drinks, the aforementioned El Salvadoran asked me to step outside with him to look at the stars. It was a euphemism. In fact, it was THE euphemism on that campus that year. Step outside and look at the stars. Ah, nature!

Someone was changing the record and the euphemism hung in the air, hot breath and hiss. Joanie heard it, as did the exchange student from Denmark with whom I had been flirting earlier in the evening. I think I am telling you this because I could not believe it was happening to me. Imagine being Molly Ivins ugly, but because you’re from the North, you’ve got a reputation, completely unearned, for being hot. Totally new experience, have no idea how to act hot, look hot, be hot, but somehow you’re treated as if you’re hot all the same.

Now imagine two genuinely hot guys who both want to look at the stars with you.

It’s the South, but these are foreign students, they don’t have guns for a duel. So what do they do? The panther pounces. He says, “One kiss. I give you one kiss, and if you do not want to go with me, I know I have given you my best.”

It was, I hope my husband is not reading this, the single most passionate kiss I have ever been party to in my entire life. If I described to you the way his tongue surged into me, the heat that was transferred from him to me, the unquestionably carnal proposition being made, it would cheapen the memory. I will just say his desire was communicated completely.

When we parted, I could not look at him. Over his shoulder, I saw Joanie, who I think would not have faulted me.

To say I did not want him would be a lie. We white bread girls are good at lies. I lied without words when I took the hand of the Danish exchange student, cool and calm like me. He and I spent the night talking about political philosophy, I think. I don’t really remember, except that we talked all night.

Ashley Laub said...

Our first kiss was months in the making - though up until the moment it happened, I would never have entertained the idea of anything remotely romantic between us. Andrew was my new best friend, the well-read republican (a rare find) I had met in February, well before the inevitable dissolving of my relationship with Brandon in June.

Brandon and I never said goodbye – I only knew it was over thanks to a voicemail telling me he was moving back in with his ex Brooke in Ohio, to “give it another try” with the mother of his six year-old son. The arm candy I had for months was gone, and my body suddenly felt cold. Thankfully, I had Emma and her new man – that was Andrew, a marine with perfect posture and a slight limp due to a serious back injury he sustained in either Iraq or Afghanistan (I never asked which) – to warm me up with Coronas and shot pitchers in Hemmingway’s, the go-to bar for every college student in the area.

“Don’t call him,” Emma had said with authority. “Be strong.” Despite her inability to maintain a healthy relationship, I always appreciated her advice.

“I have a better idea,” Andrew said. “We’ll get you drunk and take your phone away, no texting that asshole. Sound good?”

“Sounds great.”

A few hours later, I was poured into my aging apartment in Squirrel Hill, carried up a flight of stairs by Andrew and placed in the dark onto my gaudy flower couch (10 bucks off of Craiglist). I looked up into Andrew’s striking gray eyes, illuminated by the yellowish light of the hallway, and in a moment of clarity, I kissed him. His lips were soft and he tasted like wintergreen gum and menthol cigarettes. I waited for him to pull away, but he didn’t. He pulled me closer, in a tight hug that pressed me close to his thin, strong body. I clung to him, my fingers running awkwardly through the bristles of short blond hair on his head. He had said earlier that night that he was well overdo for a hair cut - sporting the same style since he was in the military. The prickling sensation of his hair seemed electrifying.

A honk from Andrew’s Jeep below; we exploded apart. Emma was waiting in the passenger’s seat. Andrew stumbled to his feet. I sat on the couch, not looking at him.

“I should go.”

“Probably a good idea.”

He stuck out his hand and I grabbed it as he helped me to my feet. I wobbled a bit, as I had apparently kicked off one of my heels since entering my abode, so I kicked off the other. The room was slightly spinning. He walked me to the door, but before walking out, he stopped. With the sound of another honk echoing outside in the sticky summer air, he kissed me again, then slipped out into the hallway without saying goodbye.

Andrew said...

I’ve written enough about her, too much about her. I wouldn’t even want her to know I was still writing about her, over ten years later, maybe 15. I wouldn’t want to give her the pleasure, but the question I ask myself is: how can a kiss, how can a person be so memorable, so tied up in emotion and forgoing experiences, and yet I can’t even remember her name? I can’t really even remember what she looked like. She had light brown hair, dark skin. She was developed. T&A, whole nine yards, quite a lot for that age, but I can’t really remember her face. I can remember the way she moved on top of me, like I imagine a stripper would move. I can remember the way her perfume smelled, floral, but with a hint of masculine musk (and that, my friends, is probably what drove me nuts). And of course I remember the kiss, her full, forgiving lips, her big mouth that swallowed me whole. She had perfect white teeth and an athletic tongue. And the way she kissed: passion, sex, all out there on the table, filling me up with it on the couch in her basement that was clearly her dad’s. We kissed on his pool table. We kissed in the car, at the movies. We kissed everywhere. I was always eager, ready, receptive. I was always there. I’d never been kissed like that, never even imagined a kiss could be that way. I heard she was easy (that too might have been part of the draw), but not as easy as I was.

I remember her mouth but I can’t remember her face and I don’t want to.

Jim Gillett said...

My first kiss came after a two year attempt at trying to get a first kiss. During my senior year at high school and freshman year at college I had dated a couple of girls from the classes I was taking and they all met with similar results. We would go out to diners, nights at the movies, bowling or any combination of all three. At the end on the night we would often sit in my car talking about her past. I was amazed at how well these women opened up to me about formers boyfriends or how their parents just didn't get them and I would just sit there offering my support or giving some general advice I thought sensible. I remember how they would often grab my hand at the end of the evening and look into my eyes with a face beaming of appreciation. As the days wore on and I felt like I was making my way into their interior castle I would inevitably try for the "end of the night kiss," which was often met with a disappointing head bob retreat followed by a look of shock as if they were a boxer who I had just caught off guard with a jab. The next thing would be some variation of the following. "Sorry James, don't get this wrong, I think you're a nice guy and all but I just don't think about you like that. I think of you more as a ..." At this point I will let you guess as to the two possible words that might finish that line so that I keep from vomiting on the keyboard.
So when was my first kiss. I can tell you this. It was at some dance club in Pasadena. It played a horrible mix of House, Techno, and Hip Hop. I don't remember her name. All I can say about her was that she was a petite asian with long black hair, she wore baggy jeans that allowed the top of her underwear to show. She wore a tube top that showed off her dancer abs and she moved as if she had been born by the music. She smelled of vodka tonics and cigarettes and she never asked me much more then my name and if I wanted a smoke and to head to the bar to grab another drink. She never told me any intimate secrets about her life, no laundry list of ex boyfriends but at the end of the night she laid the most perfect kiss that I thought the world had turned to black and white for just a brief moment. It was aggressive and gentle, sexy yet playful and all the energy and romance a kiss could have given. A kiss between two lovers separated by war could not be delivered with more passion and intensity. Fuck wasting months getting to know people, I'd rather dance, get drunk and kiss.

Michael Lacoe said...

The Kiss

The kiss was so powerful, so filled with kinetic energy, a force of sheer joy with a weight of pure unrequited love it literally knocked me to the ground. As I fell to the grass, wet from the timed sprinkler which violated the recently enacted drought laws, I was enmeshed in her saliva and enabled by a tounge that knew no boundaries. It had the smell of her breakfast, uncooked fish and sweet brown rice. I personally would have topped it off with some soy sauce and mirin but taste is a very personal thing so no judgment here. It wasn’t just one kiss, it was a rat-i-tat-tat non-stop onslaught of kisses, a reflection of her never-ending unconditional love that had me barreling in unrestrained laughter, a welcome relief and sharp departure from the undeniably bad news of last night. In the spirit of mutual playfulness, I took her in my arms and with all my strength pulled her to the ground. She was strong and naturally had to resist me but I used the wrestling maneuvers from my high school days and got the upper hand, leveraging the full force of my body to pin her to the ground where, in the spirit of fair play, I kissed her first on her forehead, second and third on the side of both cheeks and finally, just to drive home my point that my love was equal, no dramatically transcended, the love she had for me, I took a deep inhale and planted a thirty second smooch that had her pawing at me, her body squirming with delight, her beautiful chocolate hair, somewhat aged white with time, reflecting the early morning light.

The pure joy of this love….so sweet as to be sickening. Candy-coated sweet.

I’m embarrassed by how much I love my dog Jamie.

Julie said...

They walked hand in hand down a cobbled street. Brightly colored flowers spilled from window boxes and hanging baskets. Bread was baking in a cafe nearby, lending cozy warmth to the crisp morning air. They lingered. They had all the time in the world. The river swirled lazily below stone bridges, as buildings that seemed older than time watched on. They crossed one bridge and then another, stopped and slowly made their way into a courtyard ringed with flowering trees. A bird began to sing. The perfume was heady, blossoms showered down on them like gentle rain. He pulled her in for a hug, his body lean and strong as the trunk of a tree. His arms around her, their hearts beating in perfect rhythm, she sighed. He pulled away, looked down into her eyes and cupping her face gently in his hands brought her their lips together. She felt the warmth spread through her body like hot chocolate on a rainy day. She felt like was falling, falling, a downy softness surrounding her, the cool light of dawn on her eyelids. A faraway phone began to ring. She opened her eyes to see sunlight slanting through white shutters. The red numbers on her alarm clock stared blankly at her and reality sunk in. She was late for work. Again.