Singled Out: The Art of the French Kiss

I know you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your sexy princess but surely there's got to be some sort of deadline attached to this excruciating process of elimination. Someone please let me see the end of the tunnel soon because I am about to kill myself or else move back to France.

To say that I've spent over a year in dating inferno is to put it mildly. Yet my unfortunate predicament has absolutely nothing to do with my past dates' personality traits, behavioral attributes, IQ level, social attitudes or sense of humor aptitudes. Nope, I have been enduring a far more colossal tragedy than these common casualties of the mating game.
My curse has everything to do with a little something called the art of French kissing - or lack thereof. Yes, it's beaucoup true, but French kissing is an art indeed - albeit an endangered one on edge of extinction, at least in my life.

I swear I'm not exaggerating! French Kissing in the USA, as Deborah Harry praised, is not boiling down to a "love's touch that comes to mean so much"...and if "embrasser c'est Francais" then Paris is certainly calling!

Seriously, if it weren't for my Blondie - this sexy twenty-two year old platinum blond I made out with one night at the Abbey hours post my last heartbreaking breakup - who totally took my breath away with her kissing prowess, I would have already raised the white flag in capitulation, joined a convent and made a lifelong vow of chastity. And believe me, that was not just the pain or the alcohol talking. She was truly a sensational kisser.

Luckily, while I am literally at my wit's end here, my disappointment has not yet morphed into discouragement and I will neither deprive myself or any of my future ex-girlfriends from the pleasure of indulging in sumptuous French kissing euphoria.

So what if in the past 18 months the majority of my make out affairs - I'll ballpark it at more than 5 and less then 10 - have not quite worked out. As disastrous, at times atrocious, as my experiences have been, at least all I was left with was only a bitter taste in my mouth -- no pun intended--as opposed to well, a tooth. A traumatic ordeal one of my friends suffered while French kissing some girl. And by the way, kudos to her for not gagging and instead electing to subtly return the particle back to its sender without interrupting the court in session. I don't know about you but personally I would have demanded some sort of monetary compensation on the grounds of irreparable psychological damage - surely, this kind of shit ought to keep you in therapy for the rest of your life.  

There's got to be someone out there, a Lesbo in planet WeHo, who speaks the same tongue as me, right? Call me a snob, call me difficult, call me high-maintenance, call me arrogant, call me hell, and even call me French, but CALL ME! Just please don't touch that dial if your number falls into the "kiss like an ass" area code, because at that point the only thing you can surely kiss is my bootie.

Read my lips: it's in the kiss! True, it's a hit or a miss, but always, definitely, a deal breaker for me. And if some of you might choose to educate, I choose to terminate. While there's certainly no wrong or right way per se, there is nevertheless my way!

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French kissing is like an eloquent poem: it reveals very little yet suggests so much.
It's all about the subtleties and variations that only a connoisseur has at her disposal.
If you have a taste for sweets think of French kissing as a box of chocolates - while there are plenty to choose from -- different assortments of different flavors -- the one basic thing you can always expect is that whatever delicacies are in the box will consistently be covered in chocolate. In the same breath, for a French kiss to deliver, its participants should always tackle it as a prelude to dessert.

Truly the art of French kissing is the ultimate form of intimacy -- beyond the anticipated intertwining of the tongues, it's most importantly the organic merging of body, mind and soul. My super sensitive male friend Peter -- who is allegedly "straight," yet suspiciously loves George Michael and argues to this day as a justification of his queer idolatry that Elton John made him gay - described French kissing as "something as simple, erotic, sensual, passionate and gradually intense as tango."

And like an artfully, feverishly and extraordinarily well executed tango, the perfect recipe for a flawless French kissing session solely depends on the presence of a few crucial condiments: connection, complicity, playfulness, synchronicity, compatibility, flexibility and the crème de la crème RHYTHM. Yes the cardinal rule of French kissing is rhythm. French kissing without rhythm is like flying without wings - it's stupid, suicidal, not to mention inconsiderate. How selfish can you be to consciously choose to be a public danger? Have you no regard for the innocent victim(s) you might potentially crash into?

To have rhythm means to be in tune and following the meter. It's the ability to embrace the tempo, the pulse, the pace, and the beat. It's a sensual entanglement that naturally responds to the complex rhythmic and punctuation of one primordial emotion: PASSION.
 
A good kiss should give you chills, palpitations, trepidations, make you shiver, make you want and desire her, and ALWAYS leave you trembling, crying, screaming and begging for more. Indeed, a great kiss is one that extends beyond the physical province of the mouth and deliciously keeps on running through your mind -- feeling her lips on yours -- for days afterward. And just the thought of it is enough to send your whole system jolting into utter ecstatic shock. It's like a drug. It has you on your hands and knees, pacing and panting as you go through the obsession of the craving and endure the arousing torture of the withdrawal symptoms.

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I'm not a masochist, I'm just intense! Isn't that after all the definition of passion? Yep! I like to feel things in an extremely overmastering degree. French kissing is like a tango between Baudelaire's Flowers of Evil and Racine's Phaedra - it's the feeling and sensation of letting yourself burn at low heat - sloooooowly - teasing and suggesting, giving then retracting, inducing joy through pain, all gradually intensifying the sexual tension, building up the desire, combusting with anxiety and anticipatory excitement,  and at last igniting flames of passion.

Lips gently come together as light and soft as a feather - a lingering touch, a subtle tingling as they lock.  Eyes closed, brushing the world away, time and space fall into yesterday. But don't give in right away! The key is to let yourself go and let the melody take you through its dynamic scales of improvisation - from staccato to legato, crescendo to diminuendo to intervals of rest. As tongues sensually intertwine beginning their erotic back and forth, left and right, rotating circular dance of seduction, fully immerse yourself in the burning passion.

A kiss is a spontaneous moment of pure pleasure - the ultimate form of foreplay - not an invasive buccal performance or a competition to beat a record washing machine.
Switch it up, be adventurously creative --  sensual tactful tongue, light suction, playful nibbling of the lips, a little more aggressive here and a little gentler there, hands exploring, fingers running through the hair, bodies pulling closer as the knees are getting weaker.

So you think you can dance? Tango anyone?

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