No, I wasn’t in love. One of the best kisses I’ve ever had was with a guy I had met that night at Hannigan & Sons, an Irish pub in Granada, Spain.
I think his name was Andrea — fruity right. He was Italian and had dreads but he didn’t smell bad. “Benissimo” wasn’t much taller than my 5 foot 5 inch frame, which I think makes surprise tongue attacks easier. He had a lip ring, played the guitar and was a dick.
I don’t know what it was that made the kiss so great.
Maybe it was the adventure of kissing an actual Italian while studying abroad. People are usually a bit more randy when they’re out of the country, no?
It could have been that the kiss was naughty. After Hannigans we went to Camborio, a discoteca up the hill. He had been hitting on me — and my friends — all night. I went from dancing in a group with my friends to dancing nearby alone with him. All of a sudden, I turned toward him and the bandit kissed me. My immediate reaction was to push him away. But it was so good. I kissed him back.
It may have been the lip ring, in contrast to his sweet, soft, juicy lips.
Maybe I just like bad guys.
Even though my friends hassled me for weeks, the worst guy I’ve kissed was also the best.
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