A kiss. All I wanted was a kiss.

The moment we first met, it became clear to me that he was a stone-cold fox. So naturally, I was curious as to his bussing abilities. I had no plan, no scheme to get him into the sack or anything. Really, I was open to anything that might happen. I was just … intrigued. I had to check it and see.

Our dating progressed in the natural way, from coffee shop to dive bar. We met at the HMS Bounty — I believe it was a Tuesday. (Ahh, to be underemployed again!)

He had a greyhound. I had a beer. Our future gender roles were already taking shape, unbeknownst to us. Much like our first date, we sat and talked and nursed our drinks for two hours. Our conversations were always interesting, on the phone and now, for the second time, in person. But my mind kept wandering … to his high cheekbones, his pretty green eyes, his full, shapely lips, his handsome square jawline, his screwed-up eyes and screwed-down hairdo … I was having double vision. I kept having to metaphorically grab myself by my own collar and yank my attention back to the conversation at hand, not the one that I was having in the gutter of my mind. But it was too late. I guess I’m just an American girl.

Eventually, the evening and our conversation were coming to a close. The moment of truth was at hand: was he going to kiss me?

My whole purpose for online dating was to do just that: date. Nothing else, no hopping into the sack with the first cute boy I met, no getting sucked into relationships that I couldn’t get out of. Just dating. Something that I imagined normal people did, and which I never managed to do in the normal way. But I had a feeling about him. It wasn’t obvious, it wasn’t a compulsion, it was just this raging … curiosity. This was a conversation that I was already having with my friends. “He’s so fine. I really want to kiss him — I want to see what it’s like.” Rebekah said, “You’re going to sleep with him.” But really, all I wanted was his extra time and his kiss. I swore to her and myself that I wasn’t going to jump in bed with him, that I was going to really get to know him first. But I’m not a patient person. His kiss was on my list.

We left the bar. It wasn’t terribly late, and I wasn’t terribly drunk. Really, I just had a slight buzz. He offered to walk me to my car. I accepted. We crossed the street. We walked past a homeless guy begging for change. Did he have his arm around my waist? I don’t recall this detail, but the distraction of wondering about the kiss makes it seem like it was. We got to my car. Was my heart pounding? It must’ve been (it is now). We said a few line — again, I don’t recall. And then, he went in for the hug. The hug! I couldn’t take it. Some strange music dragged me in. … He turned to kiss me on the cheek. Instinctively, my head turned toward his, and suddenly we were fully making out. And it stoned me. When we kissed…..oooh, fire. It was almost paradise. In the book of Right On, it was right on.

What do we do now? I mean, jeezus, it was only the second date! But I didn’t want to become second hand news. Somehow, we were going to have to part ways. Finally, we pulled away. I began to turn toward my car. In a split second, it happened. SMACK! The flat of his palm slapped squarely across my ass. Followed by, “You’re cute.”

Cute?! Cute? All that discourse, all that talking, and all I get is “you’re cute”?! My heart dropped into my stomach. The sting of the slap was nothing compared to the stinging demoralization of that phrase.

Listen people: I’m small. Petite. Short. Diminutive. Downright dinky. Whatever. I’ve heard “cute” all my life. Cute is not sexy. Cute is not beautiful, or desirable, or hot. Cute is the kid sister. Cute doesn’t count. Cute sits in the backseat. Cute gets the child’s portion. Cute wears size small, and can’t see above people’s heads, and can’t reach the top shelf. Cute is not a grownup. Cute is sweet child o’ mine, not black magic woman. I mean, it’s fine when friends or strangers call me cute. Really, I’ve even grown to like it — it can be endearing. Cute has its place.

But potential lovers? Oof. That really took the wind out of my sails, not the slap. In one split second, he went from an intelligent, interesting, unique individual to just another dude. Up until that moment, I thought that he saw me as an intelligent human being, and attractive, and worthy of this quality mid-city makeout session for more lofty reasons. For a moment I was gold dust woman, and then ‘Whammo!’ — all in all I was just another brick in the wall.

I drove home, ashamed, head spinning, wondering what it all meant. I went to bed, tossing and turning, and dreamt all night about … sleeping with him. All night, I want the young American. Even the humiliation of the C-word didn’t halt the flow of my inner raging 13-year-old adolescent (fe)male hormones. Despite everything I was still hot-blooded.

But what was it, this slap? Was it an uncontrollable urge? Was it the only way he could think to part ways? Was it even a thought, or simply a reaction? Was his urge really to slap my face, but he missed? Did I embarrass him? It didn’t add up: Ph.D., started his own business, great taste in music — how could he be just a dude? It was a brilliant disguise.

The next day I received an email, all apologies. An eloquently worded acknowledgement of the wrongness of the ass-slap. He said he wouldn’t blame me if I said, “You’re no good, baby, you’re no good.” But I’m a forgiving person, and time washes clean love’s wounds unseen. And really we both wanted it to be all right now. So after a little thought, I agreed to give him another chance.

We eventually got past the slap, and frankly, I rarely think about it these days. We have more important things to talk about, and we’ve had far more important events in our lives together. Further on down the road, hand in glove, the sun shines out of our behinds, and we’ve made plans that are much bigger and stronger than some little transgression like a slap on the ass. Everything’s hunky dory with my 20th Century Boy.

Now ain’t that close to love?