welcome fans!

To date, this is the best term I have encountered to describe what seems to be a growing trend in contemporary relationships–that of being together but not really together. Friends with benefits is so ’90s. Fuck buddy is way too blunt. Special friend is so showbiz.

But kissing friend, perfect! Sublime romantic, beautiful words to mask the ugly reality behind what seems to be a perfectly cool set-up.

Relationships are cliche but they have evolved to become the basis of love in society simply because they are practical. The exclusivity clause, no matter how ideal, impractical, and stupid it sounds, is a security blanket that makes everything all right.

Yeah, your partner will cheat on you one day or is maybe cheating on you right now, just when you think everything is rosy and perfect. (Gosh, so tanga!) That’s the rule and not the exception. But with a legitimate relationship you are committed to protect, you always have something concrete and clear.Plus, it’s dignified, normal, moral, legal, respectable, proper, etc. etc.

And a kissing friend? Well, in legal terms, it would be bigamy or concubinage, a crime in all aspects. But since it doesn’t involve marriage yet, the only punishment is overwhelming public curiosity and maybe, for some lame people, condemnation.

But friend, we will kiss bliss. And we will kiss others too. We will kiss as many. And we will kiss as often. Behind your girlfriend’s back and all others.

But after the kiss is over, you are left with nothing to hold on to. And when you fall, you’ll fall hard on the floor. No one’s there to catch you. And you’ll weep. Wait for another kiss. Hoping that the aftertaste will last to cover up the next time the tears will fall.

I am counting the days of when all of these will end. Not that I want it to. But I guess I know all too well that, like all the others, this is bound to end, and soon. The closer I stick to the worst possibility, the safer I will be from future unnecessary hurt and pain. So when reality closes in on me and on us, I will feel but the teeniest, tiniest bite. And it won’t even hurt that much because I have learned to let you go even when I am still holding you close.

So this is our version of postmodern love. No I love yous. No promises of forever. No forced loyalties. No structured commitments. Just a lot of laughter. A bunch of stories. Subtle expressions of sweet nothings. Gestures of trust and care. Actuations of people who are actually, maybe, just maybe, really in love with each other but playfully refuse to declare it out in the open.

For it might ruin the blissful beauty of this shrouded romantic mystery. For it might expose us into the ugly reality of conflicted relationships of rigid conventions and failed expectations.

But slowly, we are treading into those forbidden grounds. The simple intricacies of denying each other in front of everyone and how it secretly hurts a little. The little insecurities of how you walk ahead of me or too far away. The silent revolt of my insides when you exercise your fundamental right to flirt around. The awkwardness of being too close at one point and acting casually the next. The confusion of how to orchestrate the idea of us in front of all others who are too curious for comfort.

How long can we hold on to this experiment? How long can love or what seems like it deny and yet confirm its existence? How long ‘til all of these ends?

That is why I’m counting.