The Kiss

Ken Anderson

Two butch men stripped and fell into bed, and when they kissed, a jagged bolt of longing flashed through their bodies, lighting nerves and soldering lips, as if for forever, in a steel-hard weld.

They could not let go, sucking each other’s mouth in a charged, salivary mélange of slick gums, pheromonal skin, wiry, coppery beard.

It was sensual mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, simultaneous oral copulation of slippery tongue in silk mouth.

It was completely opening themselves, like their mouths, telling each other, not with words, but a brash, flame-like flick of the tongue how utterly accessible they were, how much they wanted each other, to meld with each other in a basic, selfless, homousian One.

They could’ve slept like that, face pressed to face, eyes closed, chests rising and falling slowly like boats on tranquil waves.

They were sharing breath like a soul, breathing the other’s hot humid air into his lungs, the other breathing his into his in a pulsing Mobius strip so deep and intimate that, as they fumbled in frottage, their groins hummed like a live line of innocent ecstasy.

And though they knew they would break apart in time, single, panting, sweating on the sheet, such a shocking, unrestrained kiss had already salvaged everything in life.