For a very long time – two years, almost – I was dreaming about a man I call the Russian. He was, of course, Russian, and lived in America a state away from me. I was seeing another boy at the time (the Artist), and so when the Russian and I first met in Israel, I fell but didn’t touch. We eventually did get to see one another later when I took a road trip last summer (post-Artist, post-THE Ex, and pre-Firefighter) and let out our pent up energy. However, I wrote this last February as a “First Kiss” challenge before we were able to do so. All the talk of kissing and the situation reminded me I’d written this and as a prelude before I write out what happened the next time I saw him:
The topic today is supposed to be our first kiss. But I think I’d like to explore my first with the Russian as opposed to my very first kiss.
He first kissed me on the cheek – which I realize isn’t exactly what “first kiss” means. I know that a kiss on the cheek shouldn’t mean anything, but here I was, fighting the urge to be with him, tipsy, and he knew it. Easily he could have had a kiss on the lips, and he knew that, too. I kept wandering away, telling myself not to do anything with him, and I came downstairs to the lobby of the Novotel Hotel in Jerusalem in just my pajamas to see him playing cards. Unwisely, I didn’t go back to bed, but I sat down and joined in the card game.
For a bit of back story, since I’ve never really told it, there were two busses on the trip to Israel that did more things together than any other bus. His bus and my bus. The first night in Israel, at Moshav Ramot (a resort in the Golan Heights), he very forwardly began flirting with me. I couldn’t help myself flirting back, but I didn’t expect anything to come of it. I didn’t want anything, either. At first, I thought he was faking the strong Russian accent. Even though I refer to him as the Russian and I talk about his accent a lot, it’s most certainly not the only reason I like him as much as I do. But it is a huge part of his personality and his defining features, so I do mention it a number of times.
He had unruly blonde curls (which he told me that he’s cut since, and that made me extremely sad. Many people know I love wild hair), a confident smirk, and a cocky, “I know I’m doing naughty things but I throw care to the wind” attitude. He’s a leather jacket kind of man, as opposed to his competition during the trip, the “boy at home” – an Artist, who really, was a long-sleeved hoodie kind of boy. He smokes, which I jokingly nagged at him for (and I would still love it if he stopped hurting his body with it), but I realized when I later caught the scent of leather and smoke somewhere else, that without it, he wouldn’t smell like himself (a smell I had begun to adore).
Needless to say, playing Egyptian Rat’s Crew in the lobby bar, I wasn’t too focused on the cards. I wanted so badly to just take him into my arms, to have him take me into his arms, and just kiss him with all the passion that had built up over the last few days. But I had the Artist back home in the States to worry about. I had promised I would be true to him, even though we weren’t an “official” couple. But part of me did not want to lose the Artist. After all, he was smart and attractive and very, very talented with his art. Talent is a very sexy virtue… And besides all the reasons to keep the Artist, I also have a strong desire to be “good”. In any relationship, I think the worst anyone can do is cheat and even worse than that would be to lie. I can’t lie to anyone, I’m a TERRIBLE liar, because inside I freak out about doing this “bad thing” and it shows on my face and in my body. And I know the feeling of being cheated upon, and I would never in a thousand million years want to wish that feeling on anyone else. So despite everything, all the desire and lust I felt for the Russian, the moral person in me being combined with the affection I had for the Artist at the time made me resist all my urges.
Finally, the other card players started to head to bed. I sat there for a moment, tired because of the alcohol, and the Russian introduced himself to another group of native Russian speakers at the next table. As they started to talk, I mentioned I was going to bed. He told me goodnight in that beautiful accent of his, and started to walk over to the other table. I gathered up the cards in my hands, and took a second to myself to just think about what I had wanted to do but couldn’t.
Suddenly, I felt a rough hand guide my face towards the lips of the Russian. But those lips didn’t meet my own, as he could have done easily with force on his part, Once that initial “first kiss” barrier had been crossed, I have no doubt I would have consented to more (and only slightly because of the large amount of vodka I’d consumed earlier in the evening).
No, instead of kissing me on the lips and violating my wish to be a “good” person, the Russian kissed me on the cheek. It was still full of what I imagined his kiss would be – leather and cigarette smoke and chapped lips that, though I didn’t taste them that night, were still deliciously him. That singular move on his part brought all my feelings for him past lust and into something deeper. He could have had me up against a wall, tongues intwined and hands wandering to oh-so-bad places. He knew this. And yet, he kissed me on the cheek.
The feeling of his hand on my jaw and his kiss on my skin lingered for hours, or what felt like hours as I sat in stunned silence and he walked away without a word. Somehow I managed to make it back to my hotel room, but I don’t remember the journey there.
He may not realize what he did to me (although I’m not one to hold my tongue, so perhaps he does). He probably doesn’t feel the same way but just talking to him makes me so happy that I don’t care if he doesn’t want to spend time by my side (not that we can, of course). But without question, it was that night that I fell too far for him. It was because of that night that all I can talk or think about are his messages and calls and curls and smiles and bad jokes and his smirking, accented voice saying “Goodnight.” And there you are, the tale of the Russian’s first kiss.
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