Free The One - No one said it would be easy by J.F. Goldsmith Page A

towards each other; I rested my elbow on the wide armrest, very nonchalantly, as did my Number Five. We kept talking. I had a hard time trying to keep my facial features under control, what with all the wine and the silliness, they seemed to slide sideways constantly, at least that’s what it felt like. It was a miracle I didn’t go cross-eyed. He seemed to have acquired a wide-mouthed frog grin and his eyes were quite small, like he’d converted to 16:9 widescreen format. Out of it as I was, I still realized that today, there would be no escape. The first kiss was in the air, the tension concerning the exact moment when our mouths should finally collide was unbearable. And then, after all, we managed to have one of those: the embarrassing moment of silence. No giggling, no silliness, nothing more to say. I heard myself mutter: “Oh yes, the wine, yes-yes the wine...” and then we kissed. Just like that. We kissed. Accompanied by inaudible inner sighs, relief flooded me. The tension had just been unbearable. This slow-motion moving towards each other, ensnaring and closing in on the prey right up to the cathartic first kiss – every time, it wreaks havoc with your nerves. And I was relieved that the kiss was top-notch, bombastic and wonderful. Wow, he’s a great kisser, thank God! The only somewhat irritating thing was his facial expression. At kissing distance, he suddenly looked weird. Like a stoned and grinning Pekinese. Do I look this naff when I kiss, I asked myself, vaguely alarmed. But then, I simply closed my eyes again – I didn’t want to destroy this beautiful moment by hallucinating about Pekineses. You’re supposed to close your eyes during a decent kissing session, right? And maybe that’s exactly it. We all look so completely naff when we kiss, and even worse during sex, that the order of the day is simply to close your eyes and hope for the best, darling! Since the Pekinese was such an excellent kisser, who cared about those little outer shortcomings?
    And how wonderful he smelled, the Pekinese! That’s another one of those criteria for the success of a love affair. When someone’s scent practically drives me mental, when I’d love nothing better than to crawl right into him, that’s when it’s worthwhile to carry on. These orgies of scent-headedness are particularly intense in bed, first thing in the morning. That’s when, if I’m in bed with Mr. Right, the smell of him just makes me melt, the smell of sleep, of warm body and of massive amounts of oxytocin, the love hormone, against which I am entirely powerless – it’s like a love drug. During kissing, Mr. Right secretes an extra-portion of this just below the tip of his nose. Dear guys, forget about Spanish Fly and all that expensive mail-order-pheromone nonsense. When you’re with the right woman, you’ve got the required aphrodisiac already built in, as an off-the-shelf standard. Number Five and I made ourselves comfortable on the brown settee, messed about with each other with great enthusiasm and kissed until we were sore. We didn’t sleep together yet, though. Sadly, at some stage I had to go home. I may have floated home on the wings of bliss.  
     
    Next day I went on a surprise visit to his place. He was in the middle of washing up and clearing away last night’s mess in the kitchen. The way he stood there in front of me – he opened the door, in sweatshirt and slobbing-around sweatpants, visibly embarrassed to be seen in this outfit – I lost my heart to him for good. He was so unbelievably sweet, how he looked at me so sheepishly, wearing his slobby old sweatshirt. We immediately started kissing again, and even without red-wine-induced anesthesia the kisses were perfect. And from then on in, Number Five and I were madly in love and a happy couple.  
    We took our time before we did it for the first time, even though we were both as horny as a toad. The main reason was that, modern, responsible and aware of the facts of