The Year of Kissing won’t officially begin until I:

a) have some getting-me-through-the-next-year sex with Mr. Ex and

b) explain this project to him and

c) find someone to kiss.

Unfortunately, things seem to be moving backward. As usual.

When C. called on Monday to try to arrange an outing (drinks? he asked), I put him off and instead suggested that we actually have a big sushi gathering as was planned several weeks ago. Me. Him. Former coworkers. Friends.  We set it for tonight.

It ended up being: Me. Him. Our mutual friend/my former coworker. Her husband.

And we had fun.

He said a lot of things that would normally have me kind of fascinated on a first date: About how he kind of accidentally got into Buffy, what he’s going to see when he goes to Russia next month for work, how he’s dying to go see Hot Fuzz and how much he loved Shaun of the Dead.

When we were all sitting in the booth moaning about how much we’d eaten, N and S suggested we all go back to their place for a beer. They had to pick up their kid at the sitter’s, so C and I ended up standing in the driveway, talking … or possibly flirting, but it felt too much like conversation to really count.

And he asked me if I wanted to get a drink tomorrow night, just the two of us at a bar in my neighborhood.

I thought about it for a second and said sure.

I’m not sure what I expect to happen. I’m not even sure it’s a date.

So, whatever happened to sushi? Did you guys get together without me? Regardless, what’s your social calender like this week? We should get together, even if it’s for a drink over there in [my town]. Your thoughts?

A little background: C used to do contract work for my ex-employer and we saw each other at work about once every two weeks. Basically, we smiled and said, “hi,” and kept on about our business.

Toward the end of my run at that job, C began inviting me and Mr. Ex to parties at his house, or to grab a beer sometime. We never went.

Recently, a mutual friend of ours suggested that we all go out for sushi, which started a series of phone calls that ended with kind of vague plans that never came to fruition.

I shot him a quick e-mail back:

We did not get together for sushi, and I would still really like to.

Or a drink. Or whatever.

I’m pretty available this week, except that I can’t do anything Thursday night because I’m leaving town early Friday morning for 10 days.

He sent back:

I’m heading out the door for a couple hours at [his job]. I’ll give you a call when I’m done, maybe a drink tonight could work?
Talk to ya soon.

Eep.

A drink? Tonight? Just us?

I felt inexplicably flustered. Almost frightened, actually (and humiliatingly). I’ve been secretly bemoaning the fact that I can’t decently just launch The Year of Kissing without talking to Mr. Ex first. And I’ve been privately bitching to myself that prospective kissing partners are a little thin on the ground.

But, now that I’m having what could, in the loosest of terms, be considered a sort-of date, (or perhaps date-ish thing or maybe pre-date or datelet), my feet aren’t just cold; they’re icy.

What the hell?

I actually don’t like sleeping with other people — they’re noisy, occasionally smelly, frequently too hot or too cold, and they inevitably make me feel crowded. But there’s something to be said for the comfort of waking up next to someone, a visceral safety-in-numbers-when-it’s-dark kind of feeling.

Since I didn’t have that feeling, it was a bit of a struggle to get back to sleep. I live in an old house, and old houses can be creepy at night. Every time you start to drift off, there’s a strange sound. Plus, I was getting a headache.

So I went for my favorite time-honored headache-and-sleeplessness cure: A fast orgasm. (No, really, it works. Science, my friends.)

I suspect what followed is a key difference between men and women.

Usually, I have no problems with summoning a really excellent fantasy to, mmm, facilitate matters. I have a pretty decent mental library, courtesy of a lifetime sprinkled with occasional porn screenings, a full complement of Laurell K. Hamilton books, a healthy sexual imagination and a deep fondness for Anais Nin.

But last night, every time I started getting into a fantasy, some hellish-and-due-for-a-lobotomy part of my brain would muse, “Hmmm, there’s a lot of kissing going on here. That’s interesting.” and then carry on with further observations about what that might mean. It completely derailed the whole endeavor.

One of my virtues, though, is that I’m not a quitter. I persisted (and conquered the headache) despite my own resistance. Bully for me. I’ve never worked so hard for an orgasm.

I woke up this morning still thinking about the preponderance of kissing in my sexual fantasies. I mean, not to knock my ex lovers, but my experience has been that kissing is great for foreplay but it tends to go by the wayside as soon as the action gets serious. (It’s not just me. Watch some porn; you can count the kisses on one hand.) Even S(wm)X — which could be and generally was hotter than the center of the sun — never really featured much kissing. (In fact, Mr. Ex was largely anti-kissing, which is one of those things that you look at when you’re divorcing and say, “Huh, I should’ve known,” but really you shouldn’t have.)

So, where am I coming up with this deeply sexy mouth-on-mouth, mouth-on-neck, mouth-on-shoulder fantasizing? Is it really that hot?

Yeah, I kind of think it is. I think my brain is politely nudging my sexual self and saying, “Hey, babe, kissing isn’t really old fashioned or for new lovers. Kissing is ferocious sexy and you need to quit settling for sex without it.”

Secretly, I’m hoping that if I acknowledge that, yep, kissing is hot and I need more of it, that annoying observational part of my brain will shut up.

Otherwise, it’s going to be a long year.

Well, here’s where we run into a little problem.

While I am, in fact, separated from Mr. Ex, he’s still making occasional returns to the homestead. And, since our divorce is exceedingly friendly, those return trips inevitably involve some of the hottest sex of the past several years. (Don’t ask me why impending divorce=hottt sexxx, but it definitely does.)

But this is not “The Year of Kissing (and Sex with Mr. Ex).” It is “The Year of Kissing, aka 365 Days of Celibacy and Making Out.” And although I could be on Day 11 of the project, I fully anticipate a little more Sex with Mr. Ex*.

So when am I going to get off my duff and start locking lips and tangling tongues? I think that the official countdown for The Year of Kissing is going to start when I kiss the first guy who is not Mr. Ex. And that will happen when Mr. Ex and I have The Conversation about Seeing Other People.

But first, I plan to engage in a time-honored practice known around these parts as “loading the hump.” Which seems especially accurate, don’t you think?

* We need an acronym for Sex with Mr. Ex, since it seems to be a recurring theme here. So you’re on notice: S(wm)X is the new shorthand.

N is not precisely a former lover. I’ve known him since he was 17 (and I was 19) and, shortly after college graduation, he became my first one-night fling. The years go by. We don’t communicate but see each other at friends’ weddings and so forth. Then, as my marriage started to dissolve, we got back in touch.

One of the things I like about N is that he is hard to shock. (Well, it’s vexing, too.) He’s always had a slightly world-weary air about him, but he’s also been through hell and back on a couple of occasions, so I tend to be very up-front with him because (a) he doesn’t stay in touch with anyone else I know and (b) it’s nice to be able to admit to my darker deeds.

So I don’t know why I expected a more interesting reaction than what I got when I decided that hearing news about my grand experiment would distract him from news that a girl he liked might be getting back together with her boyfriend:

Me: Hmm. Would hearing about my experiment in celibacy cheer you up?

N: I dunno – is it funny?

Me: Remains to be seen. But the theory is that I really have completely stopped being able to understand men. You guys are a fucking alien species. And, er, my working hypothesis is that sex muddles things. And, since I seem to be unable to resist falling into bed with people as a possible solution to problems, a decision to be celibate for a while isn’t a terrible notion.

N: that’s true that’s true

Me: Also, I miss old-school making out. Like, high school quality torture fests.

N: also true

Me: So, I’m kind of undertaking a celibacy project, although I’m actually thinking of it as “The Kissing Project” so as not to depress myself.

Me: And I’m going to write about it. In theory, there will be a fictionalized memoir at the end.

(Long pause. No response from N.)

Me: The end of … a year.

(Long pause. Still no response from N.)

Me: You’re totally doing someting else right now.

N: Boss talking to me

N: Done now

N: Well, I need to run… can we talk tomorrow afternoon

[end scene]

What I find particularly hilarious about this is that N has, to my knowledge, never gone longer than a week without having sex. And he has firsthand knowledge (as well as many conversations) to reinforce his understanding that I, too, love sex.

You’d think he’d have some respect.

E’s immediate response was, “OK, seriously, how long before you crack?”

I laughed. It’s not like the same thought hasn’t crossed my mind.

“Well, I don’t think I will,” I said. “I mean, I’m pretty determined to give this a fair shot. But I’ve thought about, well, what if I cave in toward the end? And I think that the point of an experience like this is it has to be nakedly honest. That’s why the anonymity; I have to be able to be explicit about what’s happening. And if what’s happening is that I’m totally caving in, I have to be able to say that.

“I mean, I think people who read this will read it for the story and the ‘what next?’ I mean, it’s not like the world is chomping at the bit for a how-to-be-celibate-for-a-year guidebook.”

E nodded sagely. But then J came out with the question I’ve been dreading answering (for myself, for her, for anyone): “Um, so what, exactly, is ‘celibacy’ in this context?”

E leaned forward across the table, a perfect illustration of the word “avid.”

“Um,” I said, and then I blushed. I am not a blusher, but the three of us have not yet reached a comfort level of talking about sex.

“Oh, she’s cute,” E cooed. “Pink cheeks!”

“Well,” I said. Quelling glance at E. Re-start. “Well, I tend to think that any sort of, um, penetrative contact definitely counts as sex. “

(By the way, Dan Savage agrees with me.)

“So, blow jobs are out,” she said, looking sad for me. I nodded sadly, too. J looked at us like we were slightly crazy.

“Basically, I’m going to revert to high school. No under-clothes contact below the waist,” I said.

They both looked aghast. Finally J asked the next obvious question:

“Um, for everyone? Or are you still going to, um, you know?”

“Yeah, the Divinyls will be in heavy rotation,” I said. “Just like high school.”

(Except now I have battery-powered assistance.)

E looked skeptical.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” she said. “Let me know when you start the project so I can place some bets.”

More to the point, what kind of person commits to a year of celibacy (with a clause allowing for really hot make-out sessions) and then blogs about it?

If you really need to pin that butterfly, here’s a sketch:

On the cusp of both my 31st birthday and a divorce, I find myself a little out of practice with men. Man (the one I’ve been married to), I understand. Men as a category are a little more baffling these days.

So, I’m struggling to recalibrate my radar: Was that a friend hug, or did it go on too long? That IM session felt a little … loaded; but was it, really?

Now, ’twas not ever thus. While I can’t claim Catherine M.-style experience, the roll call of past lovers is not precisely in single digits. I’m assuredly a fan of sex and I have some concerns that a year of celibacy will make me (a) completely insane or (b) willing to hop into the sack with the first warm body I encounter on Day 366.

On the other hand a project like this could help me lower the stakes as I ease back into single life. (I’ve been practicing: “Sorry, not tonight. I have a headache commitment to my readership.”) If you know from the outset that things will only go so far … that the plan definitely has no wiggle room for getting swept away … then the waters are both clear and relatively shallow, with no hidden currents. It’s practically a return to pre-sexuality.

There are other compelling reasons to go forward.

For one thing, I unabashedly love kissing. I love making out. I miss those hot and tangled torture-fests that ended with both parties practically steaming from sexual frustration. And once I started having sex (admittedly at a rather advanced age in college), those make-out sessions just seemed to get fewer and fewer until they vanished altogether.

For another thing, there is much to be said for avoiding post-divorce complications. And sex is always a complication. We may say it’s not. We may behave as though it doesn’t mean anything, but at the most basic level, sex stirs up an interesting brain cocktail that includes oxytocin, a chemical that — when found in elevated levels in the brain — promotes social bonding.

On the other hand, in the bloodstream, oxytocin enhances perineal muscle contractions, so its presence in post-coital chemical testing might be purely about the body and not the brain. It’s tough to say, but I’m old enough to appreciate a “better safe than sorry” approach.

So, what can you expect on this blog? Well, plenty of kissing and telling. I expect to post some reflections on what a year of celibacy really feels like. (I do it so you don’t have to.) And I’m sure we’ll come up with other stuff along the way.

Me? It’s been years. Literally. Six of them. I counted.

I miss kissing. I miss it like a long-lost best friend.

And this year, I’m going to get it back.

Stick around and I’ll tell you how.