ExposedNYC

I’ve come to believe that I have a moderately addictive personality. I don’t necessarily have to start my day off with a double tall latte to feel human, but it is rare that I hit the pillow at night without some sort of caffeine fix. I don’t feel the need to fill a lunchtime thermos with cheap wine, but I have been known to partake in binge drinking leading to some semi-regrettable phone behavior.

The thing that gets me in trouble, where I experience actual withdrawls and find myself justifying unreasonable behaviors, is simply a kiss. I don’t put this in the same category of wanting to find a date, or “needing to get laid”, or any of those supposed normal symptoms of single stature. My lip-locking wishes stand on their own, regardless of all of the goodies that supposedly come along with them.

Of course, my pursuit of this desire is often coupled with a few cocktails. It’s much less likely for two semi-strangers to engage in a passionate embrace while idly riding the subway. They call it liquid courage for a reason.

But I find myself missing the kiss for days after crawling out from underneath the hangover blanket. Forget a greasy breakfast and a beer. My longing for the sweet taste of another mouth devouring mine lasts well beyond my fast-food cravings. In fact, I find it near impossible to put out of my mind until I’ve found my next fix.

Of course, like any addiction, it is possible to conquer. The longer you go without a kiss, the easier it is to forget the euphoric high. It’s the infrequent abuse and casual use of this drug that has me trapped into a downward spiral, searching for a reliable dealer at a price that both my desire and pride can afford.

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