The Kiss

It begins harmlessly enough, the first kiss. Who really knows what to expect? Only that it won’t be the last.

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They were young, the night was dark, the Senior prom was over. They sat in his car in the moonlit parking lot behind the school auditorium while the crowd thinned out.

Intensity filled the air. He timidly touched her hand. It touched back. Their eyes met; time stopped. Somehow, they couldn’t explain, they were drawn together. Their lips touched, and it happened, the first kiss. Youthful innocence is short-lived. They opened a door that would not soon close. Something primordial had begun, and their world would never be the same.

That kiss, it lasted too long
And we probably shouldn’t have danced to that song.
It was nothing,
It was absolutely everything…
That kiss, that girl, that place you go.
Where is she now?
You don’t even know. Liam J. Fray

I made all that up, except for the lines from Liam’s song.

Who can recall their first kiss, at least the one they actually initiated and passionately participated in? Someone said that women remember their first kiss while men forget their last one. But nobody forgets the explosive power that comes when lips touch, not to mention tongues.

Who ‘invented’ kissing, and what does it mean? Who knows, and moreover, who cares? Imagine what life would be like without kisses. Why, then the only purpose for lips and tongues would be for talking and eating and maybe, if you’re lucky, whistling. Boring.

While there are all kinds of kisses, not all are endued with eroticism. Eros kisses may be the best of the bunch, at least up to a certain age, but one can opt for other kisses along the way.

The kiss of ‘philia,’ may be the kiss most often used, especially in a public display of affection. It’s sort of like the French method, the double-cheek, air-kissing sort. Not to be confused, of course, with the other French iterations which tend more often than not to lead through the open door of bedrooms. Use caution.

Then there’s the ‘agape’ kiss, probably invented by a monk hibernating in a cave somewhere along the Dead Sea. Such kisses can be only described as indicative of ‘selfless love,’ or perhaps ‘charitable’ affection. Churches, politicians and faux eleemosynary evangelists have perfected this method of kisses, especially where the request for money is concerned.

Kisses change with age. There are the ‘before’ and ‘after’ variety of pecking. They begin with infant babies. Who can resist kissing the tots? As they grow, this proclivity of adults reaches its zenith about the age of four or five. They can no longer endure Aunt Florence’s stale-breath forehead kisses. Some say it’s the beginning of all sorts of youthful rebellion. That’s when patting heads begins.

Then there are kisses ‘after’ a certain age, where age is less chronologically defined than physiologically induced when wrinkles have rendered one’s face unappealing for lip-lock manifestations of affection. It ushers in the era of cheek kissing and kiss blowing. It’s a hygienic approach to kissing and keeps germs at safe distances.

Kisses are one of the few things in life that need no practice to be perfect. And some are better at it than others. I knew a fellow, Roy was his name. He was a natural-born kisser. He had lips so large he could kiss a wall and be stuck on it for weeks waiting for somebody to pry him off. He was a terror to all women.

Roy would walk the halls of the office, looking for a woman, any woman, to kiss. You’d see him coming, his bulbous lips licked to a shining sheen, ready for action. Avoidance from such predators is essential. It can be achieved simply by feigning interest and at the last micro-second turning the face, so his lips simply slide by, leaving only a wet streak across the cheek. Not perfect, but effective. The #MeToo movement kissed Roy back.

Honorable mention includes the ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ kisses. They usually begin with enthusiasm and hugs. But sometimes the departing ‘kiss-off’ can be misinterpreted. There’s the ‘see you later’ meaning or the ‘goodbye’ one whose first cousin is far more explicit. Vocal inflection is everything in goodbye kisses.


I’d leave you hanging if I didn’t include the most memorable kiss I ever had. It was from an orangutan. Ask me about it sometime.

But for now, just know that while kisses may not spread germs, they sure do lower resistance.


Bud Hearn
October 17, 2019

Resting on our Laurels

"The older I get, the better I was.” Anonymously inspired.

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Laurels…we’ve got plenty of ‘em. They cling to our walls and clutter our closets. Our photo albums bulge with them. Metals and badges occupy vases, shelves and cabinets. Storage units overflow with yesterday’s cast offs. Out of sight, out of mind. Why do we keep them? Because we’re in love with our past.

We’re proud of our achievements, our metaphorical branches of Laurus nobilis, garland wreaths of athleticism, statesmanship and feats of extraordinary accomplishments. Ok, so that was then, and this is now. They’re our mosaic of a life lived, though now dusty, withered and faded with age like some Dorian Gray portrait.

The Millennial crowd doesn’t clutter their spaces with such memorabilia. Not only because about all they have are a few high school or college leftovers—Home Ec certificates, faded football jackets or too-tight cheerleading uniforms—but also because there’s not much of a past to brag about with this group. Yet, that is. Today they’re the YOLO generation…you only live once. College diplomas are no longer required for job interviews.

My mother displayed my college diploma to anybody who’d pretend an interest. It had a blue seal at the bottom with the words, ‘cum laude.’ I never got much mileage out of the Latin inscription. But a couple of folks did ask why ‘summa’ was not there. It became obvious when they’d gotten to know me a little better. I have no idea where that diploma is today. So much for the ‘cum laude’ laurel.

The other day I was rummaging through a chest of drawers looking for some plastic collar stays. You know, those plastic doodahs that keep shirt collars from rolling up like they had a perm. Lying beneath an old ROTC metal for sharpshooting was a copper coin, tarnished with age. Its inscription evidenced the fact that on January 3, 1980, I succeeded in running a 50-mile ultra-marathon. The older I get, the better I was.

It wasn’t much of a laurel for such an enormous effort, but it reminded me of some good years of the past when the collection of laurels was important. I was inspired then and ran several more. But who’s ever satisfied with achievements. Life demands more. So, I decided to try a 100-mile run. It never happened. Joints wear out. Titanium hips are not laurels.

Some people have laurel obsessions. I knew a fellow with a fat wallet and a foul mouth who bragged about his safari hunting prowess. He had built a ‘game-head museum’ in his office. A grotesque assortment of lifeless heads of wild animals with glassy eyes hung on the walls. They looked down with a taxidermized sadness I’ll never forget. It was a monument to human ugliness. It gave me the willies.

There were rugs from the scalped hides of bears, lions and tigers, their once-menacing heads looking sad and pitiful being some weirdo’s decorative laurel. An amputated elephant leg doubled as a coffee table, and on the wall hung a pair of ivory elephant tusks, crossed like two medieval swords. He recited from memory each kill, the gun used and the muzzle velocity of each rifle. He dressed like Hemmingway. It was a despicable display of human depravity.

Laurels have no boundaries. I know others who have seen the world, swam with whales, climbed the world’s Everest, trod the stony streets of Jesus, crossed Caesar’s Rubicon and slithered down the wet alleys of Venice. They have photographs and videos and live to impress dinner guests with their been-there done-that adventures. Only starving fools accept their invitations to supper now.

Look around, laurels are everywhere...newspaper obituaries, resumes for important committees and exclusive club memberships. Some even wear their monetary methuselah metals openly, like badges. They pretend to be like some highly decorated warrior in uniform, not realizing time is gnawing the bones of their relevance. Pompous fools only impress the dimwitted.

Laurel branches still grow. Some wither but some are perennially fresh. Age is no barrier to achievement. Opportunities are new every day. So long as we trod this side of the grass, laurels are possible to achieve.

We would ask, “Is there any laurel worth resting on?” I am certain of at least one: Love, generously bestowed, never loses its luster and is evergreen to the end. Maybe you know others.

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The older I get the better I was. Maybe you, too. Res ipsa loquitor.



Bud Hearn
October 2, 2019