French Kissin’ In The USA
On my disastrous first makeout sesh, decades of marriage, and the kinds of intimacy that matter most to me now
I started writing this essay about my first kiss (if we can call it that) a few weeks ago, and have since appreciated so many posts touching on the topic (like this one from Oldster, and this one from Rebecca Woolf). It’s been fascinating to see so many people recounting the hot-and-heavy moments that have lingered like a Cranberries song.
My introduction to tongue has lingered too, but def not in a good way. Seriously. Ick doesn’t even begin to cover the messy magnitude of that makeout. Although his mouth certainly covered the magnitude of my face.
In hindsight, it was a violation that didn’t even register as one at the time (because patriarchy) — an issue of consent and compatibility that I’m grateful hasn’t been much of a concern in my 23-year marriage.
Rush, Rush
It all started at Knott’s Berry Farm in 1984, shortly after middle school graduation. I was there with a few friends and towards the end of the day, we noticed a group of guys in surfer shirts (remember Sex Wax? Body Glove? Hang Ten?) checking us out. Within seconds, I found myself in something akin to a National Geographic special on the mating rituals of the American adolescent.
It was like picking teams for P.E. but infinitely worse.
The tallest guy, lanky and tan with the tips of his hair bleached orange, approached the tallest and blondest girl. Then the next boy, slightly shorter, walked over to the next girl, who was also his approximate physical match. The cycle repeated once more. And then there were two: yours truly and a guy who I think was named Marc. Or maybe Eric?
I couldn’t tell if he liked me, and of course I didn’t even consider whether or not I liked him. All that mattered was the absurd validation that came with being chosen by a boy — or I guess in this case, not getting rejected by one. While MarcEric and I walked awkwardly next to each other, saying literally nothing, I watched the other couples ahead of us laughing and flirting.
We decided to go on a ride and, after pairing off in separate cars, I could see the other boys casually draping their arms around my friends’ shoulders, one or two of them even going in for a kiss. My stomach lurched and my palms grew sticky, certain I would be next. Would there be tongue required? Where were my hands supposed to go?
Thankfully, MarcEric barely touched me.
We probably uttered a total of three sentences before my friend’s dad picked us up, which included the all-important question: How old are you? (I later discovered we’d both lied by exactly one year — me pretending to be fifteen and him sixteen.) I also revealed that I was going to be a cheerleader the next year, which I thought would make me seem more appealing, but I still felt like a loser during the drive home when my friends gushed over how fine and bitchin’ the boys were, and how they’d all exchanged phone numbers.
A few weeks later, the guys made plans to drive from Garden Grove to Riverside and meet my friends at the movies. I was kind of surprised when they shared that MarcEric would be there too and asked me to join. I was already at dinner with another friend, but we decided to head to the theater from there — maybe they’d even have a guy for her, I said, acting like some ultra-experienced matchmaker. In the back of my mind, I half-wondered if MarcEric might fall for her, which would allow me to avoid another awkward encounter.
After purchasing tickets for Streets of Fire, we repeated the pairing-off that had been established at Knott’s. As the other couples scattered around the theater, I took my seat to the left of MarcEric, and my friend from dinner sat to the left of me. When the lights went down, I could once again see the other guys making their moves.
Swallowed
This time, even with a wing-woman directly by my side, there was no escape. Within minutes, MarcEric’s lips were on mine. Correction: his mouth seemed to have grown twelve sizes, and he was attempting to swallow me whole. When we finally broke apart, my face had been bathed in what felt like a vat of saliva that I didn’t even have the courage to wipe off. I just let it dry naturally before he went in for another super-soaker.
I had zero interest in ever getting my face washed by MarcEric again, let alone seeing or talking to him after that.
And yet! When I later learned that one of my friends liked him better than the guy she’d paired off with, and she and MarcEric had even gotten together, I sobbed into my pillow. How could he choose her over me?! And how could she steal my man like that?! I contemplated calling the guy who my friend had dumped for MarcEric to discuss how we might get back at them for cheating on us, but of course realized that would be ridiculous.
One thing I did get out of the experience was a clear understanding of what I didn’t want going forward. And aside from one time in college when I wondered if the guy had a tongue at all, every subsequent encounter was infinitely better — maybe at least in part because it was always on my terms as much as his.
Time After Time
Fast-forward to today, and I’ve been with The Husband long enough to know we’re compatible on every level. However, making out — and, really, physical intimacy as we once knew it — has become a thing of the past. It’s not easy to admit, but it’s our current reality, and something I think people (especially monogamous married couples like us) should be talking about more openly.
Truth is, sexless marriages are super common, and there are countless reasons. The most obvious, in our case, is that we’re getting older and our hormone levels — along with our libidos — have tanked. (Yes, mine and his … menopause, meet manopause.)
Familiarity is yet another factor, which tracks when I consider that a lot of people our age who profess to be having great sex are unmarried. I mean, I get it. Before I met The Husband, almost all my relationships were largely based on sex. I spent the better part of the 90s hooking up with emotionally unavailable men while feeling like a badass bitch because I got them into bed. (I even wrote a book about it while planning my wedding, as if that was proof of my fuckability and therefore my value.)
Then, along came someone who wanted me, and who I wanted back — physically, but also in every other way. As we’ve become each other’s sources of unconditional love — the family we never had but desperately sought — the physical piece has kind of fallen away. These days, we’d rather spend our time in bed discussing metaphysics or music or the meaning of life, while snuggling up with our rescue dogs. (And yes, the fact that they sleep between us is very likely another impediment to getting it on — I mean, we’ve all seen Best in Show, right?)
Some experts refer to it as the “brother-sister” dynamic (check out this convo with Tracey Cox), and I don’t think they mean it in a Game of Thrones way. But, basically, as much as we used to enjoy making out and moving my sleigh bed across the hardwood floor like a couple of horny reindeer, we’ve spent the better part of our marriage prioritizing emotional, spiritual, and intellectual intimacy.
What Is Love?
Recently, a reel popped up in my feed declaring “A marriage without physical intimacy isn’t a marriage.” It was excellent clickbait, as my own mouse can confirm, but the comments told a much more nuanced story about what really matters.
Of course, I’m familiar with all the research saying that physical intimacy is an important way for couples to deepen their bond. And sure, there’s all kinds of medical and lifestyle stuff (hormone therapy, diet, exercise) that can reignite the spark.
I just wonder if the bigger issue isn’t a lack of physical intimacy but the messaging that says it makes or breaks a marriage. Because for us, that’s simply not the case. It makes me think that perhaps the pressure to put out, or even make out, is the real recipe for marital misery.
I even question how satisfying married sex is for people who’ve been together this long. Is it something they’re doing because they still want to, or because it’s expected — just another box checked off the list created by a world insisting women need to satisfy the needs of their menfolk? I feel lucky to be in a relationship where we don’t pressure each other, our needs are pretty similar, and communication is constant (which is apparently more important than bonking like bunnies for all of eternity).
Look, if you’re old and married and still into screwing your spouse, more power to you. I salute you, and will take my vibrating toys to another corner of the playground. But I also want to say to anyone who’s kind of over it, man or woman, for now or for always: there is nothing wrong with you.
I Want That Man
In all honesty, perhaps thanks to hormone therapy, there are times when I do want to get a little closer. So, it’s not like I’ve given up completely. I mean, scheduling sexy time and date nights has always seemed weird to us both, but we do have a “Calendar of Fun” taking shape that includes things like a trip to Joshua Tree and even a “Best in Show” event hosted by none other than Jane Lynch.
In that respect, it’s almost like we’re a pair of adolescents starting to date all over again — except this time we already know we like each other (and we understand consent). Our most recent outing proves that better than anything I could make up: The other day, we went to see The Odyssey, but made the mistake of booking the IMAX experience. It was so overstimulating that I began to have trouble breathing. The Husband sensed a panic attack was imminent and grabbed my hand, guiding me out of the theater and through the mall to the car, assuring me everything would be fine.
And it was.
Especially because I was there with someone who knows, understands, and loves everything about me, including how and when I want to be kissed or simply left to my own … devices.