I saw a boy today that I wanted to kiss.
On my way to work on the train, he was maybe 40, fit, a little rough, with a strong imperfect face, unconventionally beautiful and serious, wide jaw, furrowed brow, a shock of thick dark messy hair. I stared at him, sunglasses on, I watched him. His face came alive as he talked to a little girl, became sweet, gentle, soft smiles. He had much-regretted tattoos, mostly hidden under his sweatshirt, occasionally he looked my way, once locking on, not really with interest, mild curiosity. I didn’t look away, staring rudely, not sure if he could tell behind my sunnies that I was simply watching him. He blinked first, bowing his head, a small puzzled smile curling the corner of his mouth.
He leaned back, ran his hand through his hair, and I felt a familiar, much missed lurch in the pit of my stomach, not strong, not compelling, but oh so welcome and I nurtured it, drifting.
I wondered what he would look like with an expression of shocked surprise on his face at having his hair gripped in a tight fist and his head jerked back. I imagined his mouth in an ‘oh’ shape, that delicious ‘oh’ that says ‘ow’ and ‘please’ and ‘fuck’ and ‘oh my god’ all in one. That ‘oh’ that invites contact and violence and tenderness, that ‘oh’ that says he is suddenly a little unsure, *that* ‘oh’… that one.
I wondered what his face would look like on the edge of coming, that moment when he reaches for it, that serious, yearning, desperate expression, that moment when he thinks it’s inevitable, then the one immediately after when he realises it’s not.
Mostly, though, I wondered what his mouth would look like, softening at the approach of a kiss, how his expression would change, reaching hopefully for it, anticipating it, waiting for it. I wondered what he would taste like in those early, soft, exploratory kisses and thought, with him, that he would taste slightly unclean, rough musk and saltiness, of dirt and sweat.
I wondered how he would react to those mouth-touches, the ones where I barely brush his lips with mine. The ones where I tease the bottom edge of his top lip with the tip of my tongue, lick and suck gently. I pictured his confusion, slight awkwardness in that position, mouth slightly open, waiting, accepting, as I slip inside just enough to taste that silky inner moistness that feels already intimate, invasive, like sex, insistent but barely there.
I wondered if he would be still while I lap at him like a kitten, all gentle and unhurried and breathy, and how he would react when I push him back from me when he reaches for more. I wondered about the kisses where I nudge at him with my mouth, encouraging him to open up to me expectantly, watching his desire grow, wanting depth and hunger and aching for that moment when it turns from this gentle play into something else, but giving him nothing more. The ones where I promise with mock aggression and don’t deliver, while I wait for his gentle acceptance to turn into a frustrated and desperate desire for attack, watching for the change, wanting to restrain, ride and match it all at once.
I watched him until he left the train at the stop before mine, my mind full of his mouth, his face forgotten already, less important than the slow rise of hunger for kissing.