Kissing, by the Numbers

*This chronology is organized by the first time I kissed each person.

One. My first kiss was rushed, wet, and sloppy. I’d met my paramour in the brightly lit bathroom on the ground floor of our middle school English complex; as class continued overhead, we indulged in a covert embrace. I hated the kiss, but I felt accomplished, like I wasn’t falling behind my more experienced peers. For months I dreaded that all kisses had to be slobbery; it took me 2.5 years to want to touch my lips to someone else’s again. Half a decade later, I learned that eighth grade is, in fact, an early time to have a first kiss. The shame of knowing I’d rushed to embrace sexuality followed me for months.

Seven. I figured out that I was bisexual just five months before ending up on a weekend retreat with the most mesmerizing and assertive girl I’d ever met. I was terrified of kissing her but was equally desperate to do so. The feeling of her lips on mine lingered for days, and I thought I’d never experience anything that extraordinary again. I couldn’t wait to see her again, but I was also incredibly anxious about my own sexual inexperience. I forced myself to kiss six people and lose my virginity between the time we first kissed and when I saw her again four months later. Yet none of my “preparation” helped. Once we started dating, the fear of sexual inadequacy became so overwhelming that I never even let us get to “real” sex. As soon as the heavy petting got too heavy, I’d find an excuse to end the night. When we finally broke up, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders.

Twenty-Five. He was a friend of a friend and had just gotten out of a three-year relationship with a girl four years his senior. We met at a beach bonfire, and he’d charmed me into his arms by the time the sun had set. He showed me how to ferociously kiss a neck without leaving hickeys, and gently guided me through my first blowjob after going down on me. I felt safe and like I could mess up and try things again and learn how to do this weird thing that is sex without any pressure or judgment. In the morning, we parted ways and never spoke again. I naively believed that every new experience I’d have would be as caring as this one. I tossed myself headfirst into the dating pool, hoping to find a long-term beau to grow sexually with. Instead, I found many, many short-term hookups that only stalled my exploration.

Forty-Two. She asked when I’d last been tested while I straddled her on the couch. I told her I was clean, even though I’d never been tested. I didn’t think I needed to be. She pulled out a box of toys and asked me what I liked. I didn’t know. I tried to leave at 4 a.m., and she asked what I was doing. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?” I replied. She let me stay the night and cooked me eggs in the morning. In the Uber home, I relished the fact that I was officially an adult living in an adult world, getting asked adult questions and doing adult things. I was 18; she was 28. A child playing pretend.

Forty-Three, Forty-Four, Forty-Five, Forty-Six, and Forty-Seven. Coming off a long European summer and an even longer first year, I finally found myself so comfortable in my body and brazen with my sex appeal that dancing in a club and flirting with strangers was where I felt at home. Kissing five guys in one night at the same club felt, at the time, like the accomplishment of a lifetime. It was freeing, and it was feminist. I don’t regret the fun I had, but I do lament the perception of me that formed in my friends’ minds after that night. The line I’d been tiptoeing as the “fun friend” slowly fell into less flattering territory. I told myself that was the last time I’d kiss more than two people in a single night, lest I turn into a full-blown slut.

Eighty. Kiss 67 had always told me that having sex with someone you genuinely loved was even better than having sex high. I hadn’t believed her, especially since I never loved her, and we always had sex high. The 80th kiss of my life changed my mind. She wasn’t only the best kisser I’d ever met; I loved her. Deeply. She was going to be the rest of my life, and I liked that 80 was a nice round number. It felt like kismet. I wasn’t just going to break 100, but I was never even going to reach 81. All the time I spent searching for true love’s kiss had finally paid off, and here I was with the evidence in my hands. My time spent searching wasn’t just over; it had become meaningful. Any lingering shame flitted away. She had resolved it.

Eighty-Three. I somehow believed that since it hadn’t happened to me yet, it never would. I trusted him as my friend and thought I’d be safer because he had a girlfriend (as did I). Pure naïveté; sexual assault doesn’t care if you’re cuffed. After nine drinks, the world begins to move in slow motion, and yet I remember the frantic haste with which I struggled to pull my pants back on. I told no one, for fear of being seen as the “other woman,” or just another slut who got too drunk but wanted it anyway. Two days later, I was told to beg him for a favor because he was the President of an important club. Power is a funny thing. I couldn’t bring myself to even think about kissing anyone for months. It felt like I was back in middle school.

One Hundred. I thought I would be able to make it to my grave without kissing more than 100 people. Seeing the number written out for the first time brought back all the shame I’d thought I’d outgrown, rather than a sense of accomplishment or happiness for the good moments I’ve shared with many wonderful people. I chose my 100th carefully, hoping it was someone I’d eventually have a long relationship with. If I could excuse every silly, meaningless kiss that got me there as a journey to finding my person, I might once again be comfortable with my promiscuity. If I couldn’t make 80 mean anything, then with 100 I damn fucking would. I’m still terrified that things won’t work out. It’ll leave me with not just one more senseless kiss, but 100 of them.

One Hundred and Seven. Dissociating is an interesting feeling. It’s hollow. I’d heard about it online and from friends, but I didn’t think I’d ever experience it. I hooked up with people I liked. How could you dissociate if you were entirely into the person? After 100, I began to regard every new kiss as entirely futile. They wouldn’t bring me any closer to my forever person, so I had to be content with each kiss solely for my present happiness. I thought I’d like this one because I thought I liked this person, but instead I found myself out of my own body and depressed in a new way.

I tried to blame it on our sobriety, on the fact that I hadn’t had sober sex in a while, and that this had to be a new adjustment. I wondered if it was because I still loved and missed my ex. In the morning, I convinced myself the solution was to try again, because maybe the moment was just a fluke. If I couldn’t create sexual chemistry with all the experience I had, what use was it at all? We didn’t have much romantic chemistry either. I felt relieved that maybe I wasn’t alone in my apathetic response to our engagement, but wondered why we both went along with it anyway.

One Hundred and Nine. Last night, my 109th told me that I was a really good kisser. The drunk words stumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them: “I’d sure fucking hope so.” Not happiness, or appreciation for the compliment. I could’ve basked in the flattery or turned it into a flirt. Instead, I felt my past catching up to me.

Now the struggle is finding meaning in it all. If the 109 people I’ve kissed haven’t somehow enhanced my craft for the better, then what the fuck have I been doing? What was it all for? I’ve frequently thought to myself that I don’t need to keep kissing more people. No one is making me do this—in fact, many people probably wish I’d stop. But I haven’t, because it’s still fun. Each time, I think, what’s wrong with one little kiss? Yet in accumulation (or “cumulatively”), it seems unreasonable. It’s true that in my experiences I’ve learned so much about myself and others, which I am grateful for, but I wonder now if the next lesson I must learn is found in the not-kiss. Perhaps then I’ll be able to declare, with finality, “It’s better than sex.”

This anonymous author really hopes that none of the 109 read this article.