Never Been Kissed(2)

By: C.M Kars



Just my luck that a week since move-in into my new building and there’s already a problem with the elevator ‘door close’ button. And I can’t waddle over fast enough to the staircase and climb six flights without leaving a trail on all the steps. No. I need to wait.

But for the love of Harry Potter, these doors need to close NOW!

My bladder does that pulsing thing again as I watch the doors slowly inch forward, just as a couple squeezes in all while staying attached at the mouth. They’ve got some skills and are clearly unaware of their surroundings. I might as well be wearing the invisibility cloak.

I’m not sure if it’s rude or damn right awe-inspiring, but I stare. This can’t be happening. I yoga deep breathe, and wonder if they think I’m going into labour. I watch, mouth open, as the guy maneuvers his girl into the far corner opposite me still kissing her, the elevator car ringing with the sound two pairs of lips make when they move away from each other for a better position.

I watch the couple rooted to my spot, bladder momentarily forgotten. I’m enthralled with a sort of perverse fascination of the passion they have for each other, the way they both can’t get enough. I can’t even imagine being kissed like that. Even in my fantasies with Tom Hiddleston, the whole image just fizzles into nothingness as soon as he comes to kiss me.

I’m sure my eyes are wide and huge taking in every detail, even as my fingers curl around the strap of my purse. I want that, goddamn it. I want that so bloody badly.

They’re beautiful... and I’m not. She’s got wicked boots on and he’s half a head taller than her, plastered together like they’re sharing the same skin underneath their clothes. She’s a bottle red-head, the red so vibrant it can’t be anything else, and he’s wearing a black hoodie, hood up, and jeans that fit. They make the clean and shiny elevator car look decrepit and dirty. I half expect a camera crew to shout for me to hold the doors – they both look model gorgeous. Assholes.

My cheeks burn as the girl lets out a moan, setting my heart beating faster in my chest. Entwined as they are, I’m free to look and notice everything – everything I can’t have. The way the guy’s big body gets impossibly closer to hers, brushing his six-pack (probably) against her, his thigh going between her legs. I end up chewing my lip as I watch him buck his hips into her, and she hooks one of her bloody long legs up on his hip. Look away, look away!

Just one more look.

The doors have closed. It doesn’t matter anymore.

My eyes get snagged on his upper body, the way it looks stretching out the material of the hoodie, and down, down, down to his muscular ass and legs. I don’t know why his hood’s up. It’s May and not that cold.

It’s not hard to tell that he has a killer body. So killer, my ovaries take notice, basking in his masculinity. I mean, I have guy friends, but none of them are manly in the way Tarzan is a man, and none of them have ever made me feel this way, like my body’s about to combust. Which is kind of an asshole thing to say about your friends, but I figure since I’m only thinking it, it doesn’t really matter.

I know all my guy friends are good guys, deep, deep down. The kind of guys that’ll be cool if you called them at four am to get your ass home from a bar or whatever, even if they have work the next day. And good trumps good-looks every single time.

Just look at this guy. Oh my God, he just lifted her up, and they are full on grinding in front of me. I’m trapped! Ah! I’m going to be the sole spectator in a live porno! And I have to pee!

I keep staring; I can’t seem to look away. My mouth has gone Sahara dry. So this is what I’ve been missing all these years. This hunger for someone else that makes the world disappear. I hate them. I hate him.

I hate him because he’s beautiful and strong, and he would never want a girl like me. Who would ever want a nerd bigger than Josie Geller? Bloody hell, but to have a guy like that, a guy who can’t wait for you... I’ve only ever read this kind of passion in books, watched it in movies. It’s real. It exists.

I shut down a sigh, and make myself look away.

Please, please, please let there be no unzipping of jeans. God doesn’t answer, but I don’t hear anything that would lead to actual sex with me two feet away. I jab again at the number six, and ignore the sounds she’s making, moans and whimpers that would fit right in a porno. Jesus Christ.

There’s no air left in this elevator car, and the temperature has for sure gone up ten degrees. I need to get out of here.

The elevator chimes the doors open on the sixth floor, and I bolt out, cussing myself out that I don’t have my keys in hand. I feel the pain in my bladder as I waddle to my door, horrified to see the guy gently slam his girl into the strip of wall separating my apartment and next door, giving her the kind of kiss that is seconds away from fucking.

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