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You Really Ought To Kiss Your Wife Like She Ain’t Your Wife At All

Any man who can drive safely while kissing a pretty girl is simply not giving the kiss the attention it deserves.—Albert Einstein

I have no idea when exactly we stopped kissing with fire lips. No one plans that stuff, especially married people. It just happens along with everything else that happens when you begin to get lazy and bigger and you stop giving a red-hot damn about anything but yourself.

No one wakes up some Saturday morning and looks over at their sleeping spouse, winces, and then just blurts it out.

“Alright, that’s enough with the kissing! I’m just not feeling it anymore! It’s gotta be lame, tame ‘see ya later’ pecks from here on out!”

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But that’s usually the way things go. People meet each other and they fall so hard that I guess it seems almost impossible to maintain that level of romance or lust for too long. Kissing, arguably the most magical act you can share with another human, it gets watered down by all that familiar tongue and spit. We curl back up within ourselves, probably repelled by our own waning feelings of sexiness and pissed-off by our partner’s goddamn obvious increasing lack of interest in us, and that’s pretty much all it takes to start the poison rolling down through the veins of what used to be. I’m dead serious. All you need is a tiny dash of self-doubt and a little dollop of self-imposed boredom, just enough lazy madness to fill up one of those tiny white papery cups you put your French fry ketchup in at the State Fair, and you can shatter every future kiss you will ever know until you die, man, with that very first pop of cold fish lips.

God, it’s exhausting just admitting to yourself when the kissing is brain-dead. But by the time you do check in with reality you can rest assured that all those vanishing kisses have been taking their massive toll, have been for a while, too.

I’m starting to feel as if the main reason that I gave up on even trying to keep the huge fire burning and to kiss the woman of my dreams the way I kissed her in the beginning is because I started sucking on the tailpipe of a certain mind game. I began telling myself that she didn’t want to be kissed like that by me anymore. Which in some ways, she probably didn’t either. I mean, in case you’ve spent a lifetime being propelled forward in this world by your own selfish set of desires and wants (which, I hate to tell you, but…you probably have been), when it comes to legions of intelligent women, the act of kissing is something they often consider way more hot and monumental than a lot of other so-called romantic stuff guys think about. And yeah, that includes you and your sexual insecurities.

We think we know how to love people the right way, but I kind of doubt that we do.

Seems to me that as a result of that deeper appreciation/value for kissing that most women seem to have, whenever men (me!) do any kind of possible damage to a girl, be it physical or psychological or even superficial; whenever a dude calls his girls nasty names or puts her down or knocks her opinions or choices or beliefs, there is a very very good chance that he has done some real damage to every future kiss they might have shared. I can make this claim because I think it’s really true in my case.

And it sucks so bad because kissing is something I have always dug so much.

You know, looking back almost a decade now when I first met my wife, Monica, I’m not lying when I tell you that our kisses were intergalactic, deep, and electrified. Sometimes they started out tender and then took swift turns down alleys of tongue dart madness. Other times they were just flat-out making out from the very start. Thinking about so many of those early kisses makes me want to crawl through her window even now and announce myself with the tiniest brush of her forearm with my lips. We had it going on, the whole kissing thing. Sometimes, okay a lot of times, she would cut it shorter than I wanted to, but I swear to the moon in the sky, I could have sat on a park bench under some Brooklyn street light and kissed her face until wolves surrounded us and took us down.

I think that I should have kissed her more often, man. And I think I should have paid attention to how she kissed me back. It seems so easy to decipher in retrospect but I don’t know; we think we know how to love people the right way, but I kind of doubt that we do. It’s like, why do we let a thing like kissing someone we are in love with just fall away from us? It seems preposterously messed up, but it happens all the time.

We get lazy.

(And by "we," I mean me. I have no clue what you get up to. Probably not much.)

We get lazy and then we become resentful.

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We choke the life out of the very parts of us that once thrilled the other person, squeezing the sparkle from the eyes of all of that charm and romance and promise we used to present to the person we loved. Before long, the kisses dry up and we stand there watching the eyeballs roll back behind the eyelids of a perfectly salvageable love affair. And why? And for what? So we could come up with excuses why our own particular era of kissing took a turn for the worse, maybe even try and blame the other person for the entire passion breakdown, say things like: they started sucking at kissing us.

Isn’t that unbearably sad, the way it usually goes? Two people who love each other, two people whose kisses once dumped high-test gasoline on the best fire in the world, kisses that made them feel unstoppable in love, all of that stuff floating away from us forever.

Unless, of course, you can turn it all around.

Unless, of course, tonight, my friend, you start to kiss her like she’s not your wife at all.

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