*Writen in response to a challenge over at Blokblog to write a piece titled “The Frog People”.
All those boys I’ve kissed. The frog people. The ones you kiss, wondering if he’ll turn from green to gold. A prince. The ultimate girly, amphibian hope.
The first was Older Boy. The less said about him, the better. I don’t remember the second. I wonder if we ever do? It’s only the first. Then the English boy. Who I demanded kiss me after hours of talking politics and philosophy. Who wrote to me for years. Whose mother writes cook books for the masses. Then Surfer Boy. Who kissed me in the car until the windows steamed up. Who came to my house tasting of salt and sex wax. Who, to date, is one of the hottest boys I’ve ever snogged. Then Mittens. Who wore black and relished his reputation as a Satanist. Who had one girl pregnant and was looking for conquest. Who never brushed his teeth.
The next memorable one; Lean Machine. Tatoos and a penchant for AC/DC and Mocador Liqueur. He had a tongue like a cat. Raspy. He loved me (he still does.) Then the Timberlake boy. Whom I’d loved forever and never thought would actually kiss me. Until one Christmas Eve, when he slipped his hand into mine at Midnight Mass and I knew. He was gentle and sweet but ultimately not interested in me, really. Then Red. Who growled his savaged-eyed way into my heart. Who demolished himself with drugs and a lack of vision. Then the arsehole. Who made promises and broke them just hours later. Who made me feel like dirt. Like something to be used.
Then the Cook. Who spent vast amounts of money on the right olive oil and salt. Who wanted so hard to please me. Who kissed me on the beach at night, as stars moved across the black. Who kissed me in my grandmothers house. Who I think I hurt with disinterest.
And then you. Tall and intense. With a lover’s hands, a broken nose and an artist’s eye. Who made me feel like anything was possible. When the whole world exploded with colour and newness and roads untravelled. You, who broke my heart and left me cold for decade.
In the cold years, there was House Boy. Who, with every intention, wanted to teach me about the London House scene, but who could never leave the house once he’d kissed me. And Aussie Boy, who left rude notes on my desk and stared at me with a visceral hunger. And the designer’s step-son. Whose kisses were so slow and sweet, I lost my footing. And Arsehole Two, who left my house with my lipstick still on his mouth, to return to his fiancé. And the Italian, who called me Bella and looked like a movie star. And, in a strange full circle moment, The Dungeon Master. Who seduced me unexpectedly and deliciously.
And the barman. Who saw my fragile self and with a laughing, cheeky grin, made me feel flirty and fabulous again. And Blue. For whom slow, Sunday sun-warmed kisses will always have the fragrance of canola fields. And now Pool Boy. Whose jaw bone is a line made for kissing. Rough edged and hard. Which, when cracked in a dimpled smile, makes my knees week.
And so. A litany of frog people. And me a lucky frog princess.