Smokey breath
I’m not a smoker. Of any kind. I tend to date other non-smokers. In the past, I’ve dated one smoker. It was never really an issue because he was always very respectful. He would smoke outside, away from me. When he was done, he would pop a mint or chew on a piece of gum and call it a day.
At the end of a first date recently, the guy I was with was walking me back to my car when he lit up. He finished the cigarette as we were about to say goodbye. Then it happened. He leaned against my car, pulled me in and kissed me. He tasted like an ashtray. Not that I make licking ashtrays a habit, but if I had to imagine what one tasted like, his lips pretty much nailed it. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he was a bad kisser.
Now, this issue opens a whole other can of worms. Could someone please explain to me how someone can be in their mid-twenties and not know how to kiss properly? How have they managed to dodge the inevitable teachers who would have been happy to put in the hours of making out to get them to learn how to –at the very least!—not be all over the place. In any case, to put it lightly, it left something to be desired. What’s worse is despite my subtle attempts to pull away, he had a grasp like The Rock and was holding onto me for what felt like dear life.
Maybe he doesn’t know how to take cues or insists on doing things his way. Maybe he’s a kissing rebel. Maybe he’s trying to start a bad-kissing revolution. Spare me.
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