Act 2. Part 2. "... the sleeping kiss."

A Chapter by B MacGregor

I was seventeen when I received the best kiss of my life.

Act 2. Part 2.

“… the sleeping kiss.”

I was seventeen…

when I received the best kiss in my life. My lover knew how to use his lips. He knew how to breathe life.

We went to the beach for the summer.

I was in high school, only one year from graduation. At the time, school was pointless. I already knew what I wanted to do with my life… dance. It’s all I wanted to do. It made sense. It was the only thing that did make sense to me.

I went with a friend whose parents were well-to do. They were lawyers or dentists. Or something else… superficial.

They fostered me like an abandoned puppy from a shelter. Bless their hearts. I enjoy people with generous hearts and minds. I always have and perhaps always will.

My best friend is Dream, that’s what I call her. I call all my best friends Dream.

I like to nestle into her thoughts like a good dream. I like being close to her imagination. She’s passion. One I never want to wake from. I love Dream… I love dreaming.

We spent the entire summer on the beach. We watched the boys of summer strut their stuff on the sand in their tiny suits and board shorts. We laughed and teased as we staked our claims.

I had a great body at seventeen. I was taut and fit. I could fill a slim suit in all the right places. I also knew how to accessorize it to make all the boys turn and stare. They were curious about me. I don’t blame them. I’d be curious about me to if I was pumped on testosterone.

There was one boy"one boy who I let stare at me for long periods of time. In fact, I use to sit in front of his lifeguard chair for hours. I purposely instigated his stares.

He was cute. Brown hair and blue eyes. Built and had a lazy look about him.

I doubt he could ever save my life. But he did, by the end of the summer he did save my life. He rescued me, cementing his position in the locker with all the other lovers and suspects.

The summer went by slowly. Dream and I played, sleeping most of the day away on the hot sand. We tanned our precious skins.

I read. I stretched, and in the afternoon, when the sun was hot and sultry, I danced slowly to soft songs from my player.

I twisted and turned my entire body. I swayed my hips gingerly. I rolled my stomach like a finely tuned belly dancer. I pretended to be lost in the music. I let it completely overwhelm me. I permitted it to flow within me without restriction.

Seventeen. Salsa! Crazy!

I knew I wanted to dance for the rest of my life. I started to learn"independent study. It suits my style.

Where to start? Salsa, always start with salsa dancing. It’s the most demanding. It’s hot and sassy. It requires mastering the three secrets to any style of dance:

How to feel the beat,
Project a confident attitude"the cockier the better,
Counting time.

Salsa’s fast. It’s real fast. It’s the humming bird of dancing. Try to keep up.

See, it’s not easy. Mastering the salsa is like taming the body. It’s something all seventeen year-olds should know how to do.

Tap out on 2 and you have the Mambo. The Mambo is a gorgeous dance step. But I never mastered it. I always let the music dictate my steps and taps, which beat I prefer to break on. Just like the beat of my heart.

To be real good at Salsa you have to have a partner.

Dream disappeared with some other boys by the time July rolled around. They worshipped her, like they should. She let them adore her like the new religion she is. I was happy for you, Dream.

It’s ok. I wasn’t too impressed by her summer catch. She could keep them to herself for all I cared. I only had my eyes on one boy that summer. I was certain, and desperate to land him.

I don’t swim. Let me repeat that. I don’t like swimming.

I don’t like water. I don’t like the helpless and isolated feeling of being moved by the waves of water. I shudder at the thought of not being able to touch dirt, sand; you know, the planet’s solid surface. Deep water terrifies me. I can approach it, but it takes quite a bit for me to go further than I need to.

On occasion, I stepped away from the shore, venturing into the ocean to cool myself. I would splash my suit, showing off to the swarm of boys stretched on the sand. It was an advertisement. I wet my suit and exposed the parts of my body to the boys. I know they wanted to see more. They wanted to see more skin. I gave them a terrific show.

By August, I couldn’t resist my lifeguard. It was a late afternoon when I decided to go all in. I wanted him. I needed him.

Maybe he was watching me. You know, from a distance. Keeping an eye on me, just in case I decided to do something stupid. Or maybe he had been watching me like he did all summer. Tempted.

I moved into the deep water, well above my head. There was a stiff current. I’m sure my screams of surprise and the look of fear and desperation traveled well to the lifeguard stand. Because he was in the water before I even felt uncomfortable. I knew he was on the way to save me, to rescue me… from myself. That a boy.

My head went under water. I gulped. I coughed. It was uncomfortable, but not as terrifying as I thought it would be. It was expected. My head went under again. My hero seemed to be taking his sweet time to get to me.

I felt something pull me, wrapping around my throat. His arm reached around me and saved me.

My head watched the sun as he hauled my body back to the shore and the sand. The sun was bright that day. No clouds in the sky, nothing to damper the degree of sunshine.

He delivered my frail and lithe body on to shore. I relished stroking his muscles on his arms and around his shoulders. He had fortitude. Yeah, lots of fortitude.

I kept still. I wanted to see how far he would go with me. How far would he go to save a life?

He opened his mouth. He moved close. He closed his eyes. He moved closer. He tilted his head slightly. His lips touched mine.

He felt cold. He tasted salty, like the deep end of the ocean. He smelled like coconut oil, rich, tropical, and luxurious.

He kissed me again and blew on me. He pumped oxygen into every inch of my lungs. It was invigorating to have him so deep within me.

I let my eyes flutter slightly. I spit out of the ocean. I waited for the next moment of passion. He didn’t let me down.

He returned to my lips. When he finished with me, he pronounced me safe and let me stand. He held my hand to steady me, like a prince in a fable would. He made sure I was protected. That a boy.

I told him thank you and let him believe it was justified. It wasn’t. His heroism was organized. It was choreographed, like a dance step.

He told me in his casual way, that it was nothing at all. I blushed, he probably didn’t notice. I’m sure my tan interfered with the color of my skin flushing.

I batted my eyes. He whipped his wet hair out of his.

Suddenly everything disappeared. It was just him and I, like it was meant to be all summer.

He leaned in again. He must have liked the softness of my lips. Or, he wanted to inspect my open mouth for further obstructions.

I obliged.

He kissed me. It was fantastic and beautiful. Breath-taking. I melted in his arms and his mouth. After I melted, I responded, full of life and vigor.

I enjoyed it. Pretty sure he enjoyed it too.

After a long minute, a very long minute, he retreated back to the safety of his perch, to protect his mount in his wet suit. He abandoned me. He left me alone, wanting and desiring.

He kept tabs on me the rest of the week. He wanted to make certain I was where he needed me to be, in front of him. In his line of vision.

I interpreted his vibes and the last kiss as interest. My fault. I should have known better. It was a sleeping kiss. Never meant to wake, fully.

I approached him at the end of the week. He was off duty, sprawled out in his private cabana on the beach. I made polite small talk. First, I thanked him for saving my life. He gave me a nod, like it was nothing, like it was trivial.

Second, I asked if he liked to go dancing sometime. I needed a partner for the mambo. He could suffice.

He lit a finely rolled paper of gray leaves with a flimsy match that he shielded from the sandy, ocean breeze. He inhaled and then offered me a toke. I turned him down. I didn’t need an extra feeling. And then he turned me down. I guess he didn’t need an extra feeling either.

“You know I like you. I actually could like you… more. But the summer’s over. We’re both leaving soon. I don’t want you to break my heart when you leave. You understand Velvet, don’t you?”

Yeah, I get it.

I get it Playboy. You’re paid to kiss people and save their lives. It’s part of your job, your responsibility, your duty. You’re paid to play. Although no one ever drowns, there’s always a victim. Someone always suffers.

Because the summer always ends. It always comes to a close. I should have anticipated that. I should have expected it. I’ll be smarter next time to know the lazy days of summer always drift away.

Thanks for the sleeping kiss Playboy. I’ll remember it.

I never saw Playboy after my seventeenth summer. Goodbye, Playboy.

Maybe he’ll read this and write me. Maybe he’ll post something. I’d like that. I’d like to see you again Playboy. I’d like you to remind me how to be confident. I could return the favor. I could teach you the mambo.

I wonder if you’ll be able to see past my scars and my broken heart to see the real me. To give me the best kiss of my life, a waking kiss.

Playboy broke my heart with his kiss, but he wasn't the suspect who set me on fire with a book of matches and a bottle of vodka. He injured me, but his wound didn't scar.

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