We don’t fuck until our fourth date. I know Flint wants to on our second; after pasta primavera and crisp white wine I choose after googling ‘What goes well with pasta primavera’. We don’t kiss until later that night, on his sofa. He initiates it; he says something like ‘When are we going to kiss’ or ‘Can I kiss you now’. Not questions. I am used to closed-mouth pecks and awkwardness, not knowing where your tongue or arms or hands or limbs should go. So, it surprises me, the ease with which I melt into him.
I’m enveloped under his whole weight and his arms are exactly where they should be. I’m a big fan of kissing – of proper sleazy making out, unashamedly open-mouthed and deliberately, unperformatively, sexual – so when his tongue meets mine, I am instantly, almost comically, wet. When I’m nervous, I laugh, so I laugh into his mouth, breaking the connection, licking my lips and giggling, but it’s not awkward. It’s fun, and he’s laughing too, and pressing his hard cock against me and I can feel the heat through layers of cotton and denim. I realise he’s not afraid to take sex less than seriously and God I’m ready to remove the pressure and enjoy it in all its silly, lovely tenderness.
What I like about making out is its dichotomy. It is two things at once: both unpressured enjoyment and an omen of things to come. It gets an unfair rep as juvenile, somehow teenage or, alternatively, something that can only be enjoyed if it leads to more. The joy in making out for hours comes from all the extras kissing someone brings with it. Nipples pressing against your flimsy dress, and that bruised-lip feeling of blood rush. Stubble rash and hands that trail sparks up and down your spine. The hot ache of arousal deep in your belly.
I can’t get enough of him grinding his dick against me. I wrap a leg around him to get some purchase, and wonder why he’s only got two hands. My skin feels alive and warm with thirst.
We don’t fuck that night. We make our for ages, maybe it’s hours; maybe not. We discover a rhythm as our bodies move together; it’s hard to make dry humping sound romantic, but I’m into it.
Perhaps I get so much of a buzz from making out because it’s a level of intimacy that’s unexpected in its innocence. To fuck is to throw caution out the window; to spend time exploring someone’s body without expecting a climactic pay-off requires an intimacy perhaps not present in the relationship yet.
Some forms of intimacy I’m fine with; others not so much. I take a taxi home at about 3am because the thought of sharing a bed is too much. I’m back at Flint’s flat at 8.30am for breakfast, though. We kiss a lot more.