I want you to kiss me. The “you” is important there. I didn’t say, “I want to kiss you.” I do. But I don’t want to initiate it. Well, no, I do. Ultimately I will have initiated it by sending the thousands of tiny signals your way in an effort to silently scream at you IF YOU LEAN IN, I WON’T SHUT YOU DOWN. Signals aside, you have to take control.

But there are rules.

I want you to kiss me, but please don’t ask because it takes away the surprise. If you verbally ask me, I will likely say no. Even though I really want our lips to lock. I’m stubborn like that. But seriously, we didn’t get to the point of potentially kissing without you having already realized you’re dealing with a fickle woman.

I want you to kiss me, but if you try without my permission then expect to get rejected. I know this sounds like I’m going against my first rule. But it’s not verbal permission. The permission I’m talking about looks pretty much the same no matter how many times I’ve found myself wanting to be kissed. It’s sinking in when our knees accidentally touch, extended eye contact, sticking around even after I’ve said, “I should go.”

I want you to kiss me, but I also wanted to wear crimson red lipstick which means you can’t kiss me. I’m a bold lip kind of woman. Red, Purple, Navy, Hot Pink, Black – these colours are my ride-or-dies that I refuse to give up. They give me strength, confidence, complete my outfit, and challenge people. Being my truest self is important, so I wore lipstick. Tell me to take it off and maybe I will.

I want you to kiss me, but I thought about the possibility of you kissing me for so long that I played out every possible scenario in my head. Now, no matter what you do, it won’t be as exciting as whatever I thought up. I’d have the answer to the mystery of you. An answer I both want and don’t want.

I want you to kiss me, but maybe don’t if you think everything I just said is high-maintenance. In the immortal words of Pacey from Dawson’s Creek, “’High maintenance’ is just another way of saying ‘high quality.’”

I just wanted a drink and some food with a familiar face. Instead I found you. You yelled at me across the bar. My ears pricked up with intrigue. Rude, questionable facial hair, beer gut, odd laugh, but none of that mattered because you were Australian. You asked if you could have one of my wings and I obliged. You grabbed one and went back to your seat across the bar. I knew what you were doing. My penchant for strange behaviour worked in your favour. But you couldn’t have known I like people left of center so I imagine you use this on all the girls. Huh.

I sat at your bar just wanting to be flirted with. My frugalness sent me towards the door after about an hour but then you said you’d be off work soon. You really weren’t my type. Ah, fuck it. We went to a bar across the street and I listened to your boring stories. As I listened, I wondered if I’d still care what you had to say if my mom wasn’t from Australia. Something to discuss in therapy. The bar closed and we walked outside to say our goodbyes. You kissed me. My body yearned to be naked next to you.

I reminisced about that kiss and my body ached for more. My coworker told me she got laid off a photo she sent depicting a man fucking a woman from behind while he firmly grips her neck. She included the caption yes, no, maybe? She sent me the photo even though I don’t care for being choked and I sent it to you. You took the bait. Would it bother you to know it was a recycled move? Whatever. I know I’m not the first woman whose wing you ate. We fucked. It’s some of the best sex I’ve ever had. God, I love Australia.

I just wanted to drink with some coworkers after work. I didn’t know they’d choose your bar three days in a row. But out of curiosity, can I see you again? You’re busy? Oh, closing every night this week. Your friend tells me that you’re not the dating type. My friends tell me you have slept with many other women since you arrived from down under. Wait, when did I become the pity case? You’re rude to strangers. You have straggly fuckin’ facial hair. Your beer gut is getting out of hand even in the short time I have known you. And when you laugh it sounds like a hyena is dying. I JUST WANTED A DRINK AND SOME FOOD WITH A FAMILIAR FACE! Instead I found a bar I can no longer go to.