We were sitting on a bench, in Milan.
Barbara was turning the forefinger of her right hand around that of her left hand. She looked earnest and grave.
“You see, it’s easy, this is your tongue and this is his. The only thing you have to do is turn your tongue
around his, fast.”
I was terrified. The first kiss is something frightful, obscure.
For the second time in your life you have to deal with the body fluids of another human being. Once there were your mother’s body fluids and now those of a boy. The boy you have decided to kiss.
I was ready, I had mimicked a long kiss inside my fist, I had made my
tongue dart inside my mouth, right left, left right, I had decided to keep my eyes shut and then
I had decided to keep them open, just in case.
Why do they call it necking, to kiss using one’s tongue?
I asked this question to myself and couldn’t find an answer.
The saliva of another person is so disgusting, I thought.
Then Barbara told me that it had no taste, saliva, so I nerved myself.
But I found it disgusting all the same.
A day in December of countless years ago, Marco took me back home. I was sure he was going to kiss me
and my belly had swelled up with air, it happened every time I was nervous.
I had two problems therefore: I was likely to suddenly produce embarrassing noises and at the same time I should be careful to turn the tongue around his at a certain speed.
It was a wreck. I turned my tongue around his tongue like a whirlpool, I forgot to breathe and produced a terrible
suction noise, a frightful and feverish ending, giving out a little flatulence, apparently without consequences.
Marco politely smiled at me and the day after he got engaged to Laura who could do
many sex things and all very well.
When, in tears, I told Barbara what had happened, she confessed that she had never kissed anybody in her whole life, but she thought it would be nice to give me some advice.
Then I decided to become the greatest Kisser in the Universe
and today I get on with my tongue very well.
As well as the French one.