The Best Kisser Ever

Before public transportation, Los Angeles was a sprawling collection of self-contained neighborhoods connected by freeways where residents couldn't exist without automobiles. Teenagers got their driver's license at sixteen and access to a car as soon as possible, which was crucial for survival because automobiles were more than transportation. Cars were private spaces where teenagers learned about sex through the ritual of parking, a euphemism for sexual foreplay.

Parking also meant experiencing the sound of crickets, the musical insects in Los Angeles that exploded into song at dusk, giving the hormone-crazed teenagers an exotic outdoor ambiance as they groped one another. These erotic activities occurred on Friday and Saturday nights in drive-in cinemas, along the beach fronts, and on side streets in the Hollywood hills. Knowing their sexual activities must not risk pregnancy, teenagers willingly submitted to the boundaries of extreme petting, especially among couples "going steady." Didn't anyone ever want more? Probably, but girls from aspirational families seldom went "all the way" because female contraception hadn't been invented yet.

Making out was the name for this extensive foreplay, starting with a prolonged period of kissing that could last for hours and often did. Mouth-to-mouth contact intensified as a musk-scented pheromone triggered an ethereal gaze in the partner ́s eyes. Sometimes called necking, this intimate behavior inevitably segued into fondling the sensitive parts of each other's bodies, first on top of clothing, then underneath. But it was a partnership. Both had to be good at kissing, or sufficient arousal never happened.

Training for these erotic encounters started in junior high school at parties when fourteen and fifteen-year-olds paired off in dark rooms, clinging vertically to one another while moving their bodies to songs like In the Still of the Night or Only You. Parallel to this vertical body clinging, learning to be a good kisser was also the result of Spin the Bottle, a game that allowed the youngsters to kiss in the dark - often in a large closet - for ten minutes. The game continued in high school, but only infrequently because almost everybody had learned how to kiss by then.

***

Candy O'Conner was a popular girl at her high school with a reputation for "putting out." Under other circumstances, she might have been labeled a slut, but her high grade-point average protected her reputation, that and her habit of periodically "going steady" with one boy for a while and then exchanging him for another. "Going steady" permitted physical erotic liberties that casual dating did not, and Candy was careful not to change partners too frequently. She was never "in love" with any of her kissing partners, but merely a self-indulgent adolescent who thrived on oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin, the feel-good hormones that kissing released from her brain.

But there was a problem, a crisis in Candy's opinion.

By her junior year, "good kisser" boys at her high school were in short supply. Many of the good kissers had already graduated, and for some inexplicable reason, too many of the popular guys in her class still didn't get it right: opening their mouths too wide, French kissing with too much tongue, or applying ineffective amounts of jaw pressure. Candy believed the girls deserved better. More to the point, she believed that she deserved better.

"We need to give the guys kissing lessons," she said.

"Lessons?" Asked one of the girls. "That sounds tedious. Kissing should come naturally,"

"Well, it's not coming naturally, Candy said. "And we need to do something about it. Never mind. I have an idea. Let's invite outsiders to our parties and play Spin the Bottle. This will get our guys' attention and make them want to compete."

Candy was thinking of unpopular boys sufficiently attractive to be tolerable kissing game players. Some were clean-cut nerds, boys who always turned in their homework on time and knew the correct answers on pop quizzes. Others were working class, the kind who took shop as an elective and had longish hair.

"I don't think that's a good idea," said Melanie, Candy's best friend. "This might damage our reputations."

"But we want good kissers, right?" Candy asked.

"Yes. But to kiss unpopular boys?"

"So, you'd rather kiss popular guys even though they don't know how?"

Candy knew that inviting unpopular boys to play kissing games was an extreme shift in protocol, but she convinced the girls that nothing less than a radical solution would be effective. Consequently, they opened their elite circle, hoping the new demographics might result in some good kissers.

It did. Candy's plan worked.

Several of the unpopular boys turned out to be very good kissers, making the bad kisser popular boys appropriately jealous. The outsiders never suspected they were being used, and if they didn't know why they were suddenly so enthusiastically accepted by the "in crowd," it didn't matter. Candy gloated. She had everything under control, or so she thought until a random encounter with one of the outsiders turned her life upside down.

When it was her turn to spin the bottle, it stopped in front of Jason Doyle, a tall, skinny, otherwise nondescript guy who turned out to be an exceptional kisser. Ten minutes with him made her want more, but a second chance never happened, and she went home in an aroused state that lasted the whole weekend.

At school on Monday, Jason acted as if their make-out session had never happened, so when flirting didn't get his attention, Candy got more assertive. She looked for him in the school parking lot and turned on the charm.

"Hi Jaaay'son," she said, smiling her best smile. "Candy?"

"Oh, so you do know my name."

"Of course. Everybody knows your name." "What are you doing Friday night?"

"I'm playing pool."

"Too bad. I thought maybe ...

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe, you'd like to get together."

"With you?"

"Don't you like me?"

"That's not the point. I'm surprised you're willing to be seen with me."

Candy was unprepared for such candor. "Oh. I am sorry," she said, walking away. "I've made a mistake."

"Wait!" Jason called after her. "Do you want to meet me someplace or should I come to your home?"

The thought of Jason meeting her parents was unsettling, and yet she didn't want him to know she was ashamed of him. "I'll meet you wherever you want," she said.

"Come back here to the parking lot. This exact spot. I'll meet you at 7."

And so it happened. Candy, one of the most popular girls in school, made a date with Jason, an unpopular nobody who was the best kisser she knew.

They parked on Mulholland Drive where the sound of crickets came rushing through the windows. They liked kissing each other so much they agreed to get together again the next evening, this time along Santa Monica beach at high tide when the grunion would be spawning.

But it wasn't the same experience. There were few trees along the shoreline, and without them, no crickets. Candy and Jason missed their sound and agreed that from then on, they'd park in the Hollywood Hills where the more they kissed, the louder the insects chirped. Candy interpreted their rhythmic cadence as a message from nature: a declaration that her romance with Jason had cosmic approval. To support her theory, Jason made sure the car windows were open so the crickets knew they had an audience.

***

"So, who's taking up your time?" Melanie asked. "We never see you."

"Just a friend," Candy replied.

"A friend? Judging by the hickeys on your neck, you're making out with your friend."

Candy knew Jason deserved recognition, yet she also knew her girlfriends would never accept him. She thought of Jason's lanky six-foot frame and longish hair. Melanie's rigid prejudices would never allow her to understand how his working-class body could give off such intoxicating scents. Candy craved the pungent, musky smell he emitted when he was aroused, and the sweet licorice aroma of his longish hair when it was freshly washed. His body was wonderful, but even better was his resonant baritone voice that thrilled her when he spoke. How could she explain to Melanie that this unpopular nobody had become irresistible?

As it was, the unlikely couple had agreed to keep their romance a secret. Jason knew Candy's girlfriends wouldn't approve, and were he to tell his friends that he was parking with the Candy O'Connor, nobody would believe him.

Nevertheless, it didn't feel right.

Candy wanted Melanie to know why she liked Jason: how sweet he was, how quickly he'd learned to touch her in all the right places, and how he'd patiently taught her new things about the intimidating bulge that protruded through the crotch of his jeans. Candy wanted to tell Melanie about the song he'd written for her, and how his baritone voice became even deeper when he sang. Jason was magic. Candy believed that partnering with him was transforming her into a better version of herself.

The truth was simple. Jason had penetrated her soul, giving Candy intimacy and an attachment she'd never known. When they kissed, she surrendered to him, basking in the sound of his voice when he whispered her name. She waited for the musk-scented pheromone to trigger the ethereal gaze in his eyes, the same expression musicians get when lost in the sounds of their instruments, they visibly shift into another consciousness.

"Where do you go?" she asked him.

"What do you mean, where do I go?"

"Sometimes, you seem far away, as if you've gone someplace."

"I have. How'd you know?"

"I can see it in your eyes."

"I go to heaven," Jason said. "And see angels. You're one of them."

Jason's 1950 Chevrolet often needed repairs and when it did, he had to cancel his dates with Candy. Since parking was the essence of their relationship, she wanted to make sure they had an alternative, so she looked to her family for help. Pleading hardship, she invented plausible excuses until her married sister loaned Candy her Pontiac, a big, beautiful car with lots of interior space.

She drove the car to their various meeting points where Jason was waiting, hungry for attention after being ignored all week. They'd quickly drive to one of their favorite parking spots, park, and then move to the back seat where there was room to lie down. Finally together, their parking rituals could begin.

"Hey, secret love! We're strugglin' to be free! When you look into my eyes, who is it that you see? Why ... do you make me so weak in the knees? Caaaandy, Caaaandy, you're all the sugar I need ... my Candy girl."

This was Jason's song to her and whenever he got to the word "weak in the knees," he'd drop his voice extra low to make her giggle. It worked every time. Jason also played the song's melody on a harmonica, a mouth harp that made beautiful melodic sounds skillfully produced by the same mouth she loved to kiss.

Some of their favorite parking places gave them enough privacy to get out of the car and move to music they'd hear on a transistor radio that Jason brought. They especially loved slow dancing to their favorite Everly Brothers song, Til I Kissed You or Unchained Melody by the other brothers, the Righteous ones. Jason was a good dancer - much better than Candy - and as a fan of American Bandstand, the popular TV dance show, he learned all the latest moves that he'd pass on to Candy.

Sometimes they attempted to have serious conversations, but the discussions never developed because their opposing political views almost always led to arguments. Though they were both of Irish descent, Candy O'Conner came from an upper-middle-class Protestant family of left-leaning intellectual Democrats who staunchly opposed the war in Vietnam and the House Un-American Activities Committee. Jason's father, an auto mechanic, and his mother, a nursing home assistant, were both ultra-patriotic, conservative Roman Catholics who worried about Communism. As parents of six children, they were proud of Jason's intention to enlist in the U.S. Marines as soon as he got his high school diploma.

As Jason's graduation approached, Candy begged him to take her to his senior prom so they could show off their dance moves, but he refused. "People won't understand us," he said. "They'll make fun of you. And I couldn ́t bear it."

He was right. Melanie had discovered the identity of Candy's boyfriend and did not approve. "I don't get it," she said. "You can have any guy you want. Why him?"

"I like him," Candy said. "I might even love him."

"What?" Melanie screamed. "His kisses are what you like, Candy, not him! Jeeze! He's so beneath you, it makes my skin crawl! It's good he's leaving soon."

"Shut up!" Candy snapped. "Don't say another word! “You don't know anything about him."

"I know he's a redneck. I know he comes from an uneducated family, the kind of guy who'll never amount to much.

"Shut your mouth, you snob! You're so smug, Melanie! People do become more than their childhood environments."

***

Jason graduated high school in June and immediately enlisted in the Marines. Before he left for basic training, he wanted Candy to meet his parents, so she went to his home to say goodbye. When he pulled her to him, she couldn't let go. Breathing into his neck, she had a feeling that she'd never see him again.

Throughout the summer, Candy waited for letters from Jason that never arrived. When the weather turned hot, the sound of crickets filled the Los Angeles air at dusk, but this time they weren't welcome. Their sound tortured Candy, filling her with longing. When her senior year started in September, she was aloof and stayed away from boys. "Why bother? Nobody kisses like Jason," she told herself.

After graduation, she moved north to the Bay Area to attend college. Her life opened to new experiences such as the folk music and jazz she heard in San Francisco's North Beach nightclubs. On one occasion she heard Autumn Leaves performed on a harmonica, and its haunting sound was almost unbearable. On another occasion, Candy heard "Satchmo" Louie Armstrong sing A Kiss to Build a Dream On. The lyrics of this sentimental song cut a new hole in her heart when she thought of Jason, the best kisser ever. And for a few brief seconds, she vowed never to kiss another man again.

A year later, as she was starting her sophomore year, she got a phone call from the Doyles just before Thanksgiving. They knew she'd want to know. Jason was gone, killed in an ambush with the Viet Cong.

"We think our son loved you," Mrs. Doyle told her.

"Yes," Candy said. "He did."

They asked for her new address and three days later she received an envelope with a photograph of Private First Class, Jason Patrick Dominique Doyle in a dark blue Marine dress uniform. He looked different with short hair, wearing an official broad-brim cap. Handsome. Manly. Lonely.

She put the photo in her jewelry box where it stayed for ten years until a burglary removed it along with her possessions. Fifty years later, long after she'd forgotten his face, Candy still remembered Jason's kisses, his scent, his voice, and the sound of crickets.

###