As International Kissing Day puckers up for a global snogfest, a crowd of Standard Issue writers recall a lock of lips which has lived long in the memory.
It was Valentine’s Day, 1998 and I was courting a very eligible young bachelor. With Cornwall being extremely cultured, our school was also celebrating foods from around the world, so for lunch said bachelor treated me to a tikka masala (the ultimate romantic cuisine).
We then had a clumsy smooch while putting our plates away. I was a bit disturbed as he used a lot of tongue (I now know this was in fact a large lump of naan bread). He then told everyone that I tasted like battery acid. You fed me curry, you buffoon!
It’s not like I remember any details, but I was 19¾ years old; it was a warm autumn night in a cabin in the woods far north of Copenhagen. We slept up against each other, next to 12 other former classmates.
It had been a crazy post-graduation party and everyone stayed the night. Our lips touched for 20 minutes before either of us had the guts to turn it into a kiss, as it would turn our friendship into something more, something weird and undefinable. When the kiss came, it was intense and extraordinary. A few months after, we had disappointing sex.
“One of my favourite bands were playing one of my favourite tracks, the lights were twinkly and I had a super-hot snog with someone… and I didn’t even turn around for it.”
My most memorable kiss was with a chap who spotted me across the dance floor at a club in London. It was like something out of a film. Our eyes locked. Well I say locked. Mine were crossed; I’d had several pints and there were about three of him.
We staggered towards each other. There were no words. We ate each other’s face off. It was dead romantic. Especially when we’d gone our separate ways and I went to the loo and noticed he’d spat his chewing gum in my hair, and my mate had to cut it out.
When I was 17 I went out with a very dashing, very, very tall chap called Tim. He was 6’ 5” and I was 5’ 5”. One evening we were bidding adieu outside his house. It was an orange summer twilight by the sea. He was just starting the foot-long lean down so that we could smooch, and I was raising to my tiptoes… when I said something. I can’t remember what it was but it made him laugh, quite hard.
Having already rearranged his airways ready for the kiss the laugh came out of his nose. It came out in the form of a snort which launched a frankly giant slough of wet grennel right down my face. It covered my whole face. There was a ladle’s worth. Half a brain at least. Ha ha. It was certainly memorable.
I had an encounter with a guy at a Jurassic 5 gig when I was 16. Standing at the front of the balcony in an extremely packed Rock City, I was enjoying a slow-wiggle to Hey when I noticed the guy squashed behind me was matching my wiggles.
To cut this story short, one of my favourite bands were playing one of my favourite tracks, the lights were twinkly and I had a super-hot snog with someone… and I didn’t even turn around for it. I left without saying a word, because, well, I’m shy… sometimes. No names. *puts finger on lips*
“It came out in the form of a snort which launched a frankly giant slough of wet grennel right down my face. It covered my whole face.”
Sally Anne Hayward
I was wearing my new dress from Clockhouse at C&A and was sitting on a chair at Becky’s house. Her parents were away. She was having a party. We were all about 12 or 13 years old and we were waiting for the boys from the local school to arrive.
Everyone just started rolling around in the dark. Just like that. Straightaway. Myself and Jenny however sat together on a chair, chatting and not really knowing what to do.
“Hello, what’s your name?”
Fljeraweldjoiefajweofjaejfri – the familiar sound of someone sticking their tongue right into your mouth.
I didn’t like it.
Kisses aren’t always memorable for the right reasons. My first grown-up snog was wet and unpleasant but in any life there are bound to be encounters of the Alien face-hugger type; that’s how you know when you’re being kissed properly.
My best romantic kiss ever was (and I’m sorry about this) courtesy of a six-foot Italian during a slow dance to Robbie Williams’ Angels, and it’s never been bettered. In the platonic stakes, it would have to be Bono’s smacker delivered in the old Guardian Towers car park in front of at least 200 staff. Get me drunk and I’ll tell you all about it.1973 Views
Some of Standard Issue's brilliant women's carefully crafted words for your reading pleasure.