A. was not the case that the kiss. You should not kiss a girl in third grade. Let alone in the classroom, while standing waiting for the teacher to give us permission to leave. But she was so beautiful. Magra, blackberry, puppy eyes. And then it was fashionable. He had no apron-skirt just like us. And even the staple. She had her apron-jacket with the zipper. As a girlfriend of Fonzie. And that pretty white collar, embroidered with crochet, all small holes and nets as his socks. I madly in love with her. I was sweating and blushing only to pronounce his name. But I was bold. In eight years, just to feel the pocket inflates the range of stickers won his companions, to feel the masters of the world. And so, from master of the world, while I was standing next to her, I turned around, embraced her with one arm and snapped his head forward to kiss her. She was too quick for me. He turned, so that my kiss landed on the rough edges of a strand of hair behind, and whispered that schiiiifoooo ...". At least the teacher and his companions did not realize anything. But since then I stopped to be bold.
B. I never tried to kiss her. Contemplation, admired, adored her. Hung on his lips. Rocked with every swing of every blond curl. She could not fail, even though he was twelve. At twelve, the girls know. The boys do not. Not even 22. Not even 32. It need not continue. She knew. But did not like. At twelve, thick glasses and round the body do not help. Even at 22, and so on ... But I spoke. And I told the guys, more or less a week, which fell in love. I've kissed, no. But I learned to swallow my feelings. And to listen. And silent. Which is better to listen and be near her, that being rejected and hurt.
C. she was ugly. Small, ruffled, even a bit 'hairy. He had a big nose, eyes, ball, body fat insignificant. Perhaps it was the unconscious to make me fall in love with her. The feeling that maybe I had bad hopes. That reality did not allow another. Samantha Fox that someone like me would only smile in certain fantasies that it was better not to tell about. She, as a separate painter of Montmartre, and I spoke hermetic illusion. Or maybe it was just the way in which I deviated interpret his words. However, not kissed her. And I kissed him. But I learned to write to heal the wounds. Or maybe just to give meaning to watch them bleed.
D. Instead I had to really kiss . He played basketball and studied psychology. I remember a one on one pitch in a concrete, in which she praised my jump shot. I remember the smiles and tickle and my hands on his shirt wet with sweat. I remember a long car journey, clouded by the wine, you and I in the back seat, hands clasped naturally, as if it were inevitable, as if there was no other way to travel. I remember the parking lot. My ass against his one. Her body against mine. Eye to eye. The lips do not. I was shy. And I was listening to others. Who said that was not suitable for me. Sorry D. I apologize now. I like, and then. And we would have fun. It would be worth it, arguing the next day, to kiss that evening a little 'magic summer.
E. did not ask for kisses. Not only . I told the boy her best friend. That she was dragged to the cinema. And then he had not seen the film. I told him crazy about her. Why did things not even imagined that his girlfriend. I mean, wink, that if you drink pineapple juice semen becomes sweet. And he loved to break into my house, slip into my room, make a tickle fight. My erection, a conspicuous sign of my youth and unspoken desire. We never kissed. I did not want to be one of many. I did not want to risk being shared. I did not want to risk it. Yet I drank pineapple juice, secretly hoping that a night of many, take the initiative. He did not. I did not. He became really sweet?
F., to be honest, I kissed . A kiss to his lips. One night it was sad and she and I spent hours to make the console as best friends. I was in love, of course. But I did not know how it was done. And then we worked together. And how does it work when you work together? And another colleague is in love with her? She liked even football. And beer. I did not ask more. I wrote long letters. That came to nothing. Why me, and so surprised, I did not answer to his kiss. Tired. Suffers. I wrote again. Too late. He did not answer anymore. She got married, I knew. With another colleague. A third. What time do not even look.
G. I could kiss her. I wanted. And maybe you too. I remember it was sunny. And we knew each other well, even if the distance he had not allowed to see each other often. But the words, sometimes, are concrete, like an embrace. It was sunny that day, only warm. I imagined an ice cream. I watched over his own shoulder. The learned by heart. Then she was to turn around. He looked at me. And he said "looks". I looked. And I saw his mouth, a big smile, infectious, sincere. Eyes as large as sweet. I felt the muscles of his back under my fingertips, the warmth of his hand on my arm, his body dozens of times I had dreamed of so near and yet so real. I said "look" and then pointed to a window. But it was a past century, a century eye to eye.
(published for the first time here )
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