When I was in college as a dance major, I had to take two semesters of acting. It didn’t bother me. I was totally comfortable with it. I had done plays and Shakespeare before, unlike a lot of the dance majors, so it was a fun class for me. Trying new techniques, doing great scene work, kissing random guys.
Okay, so the kissing bit was weird. And not because I was already dating my now husband at the time. We’re both performers, it sort of comes with the territory. Like taking your clothes off in front of other people, and running around in your underpants for money. The class kissing was weird because not all the kissers were good.
There was this one guy, who was very sweet, and I would feel bad writing about him except, well, who knows they’re a bad kisser? How would he ever figure out I was blogging about his inability to press his lips to another humans in an appealing fashion?
Anyway, he wasn’t like a no-lip, where you can feel the teeth through the skin. He wasn’t even a squelchy pecker who made awkward sounds while attacking chicken-style. He was a face swallower.
At some point in this poor guy’s life, someone must have told him that the object of kissing was to fit another person’s lips inside of yours. Like a super-gross thumb war on your face. So, whenever we did a scene together, my mouth would end up inside his mouth like I was wearing his lips as a squishy goatee. And worse, he had a juicy mouth, so when he pulled away, there was always slobber coating my face from the nose down. Quite often I would have his spit up my nose. Not a pleasant sensation, I must say.
And you can’t just stop a scene to wipe spit off your face—that’s how you fail class. Nope, you just have to keep going. Keep doing a deep and meaningful scene with saliva dribbling from your chin.
Not a shining moment of glory in my life by any means.
On the plus side, I’ve appreciated every good kisser I’ve encountered since. Including my husband.
Note from the husband: Thanks, honey.