won't you stay, we'll put on the day, and we'll talk in present tenses...

He makes my knees weak.

It's strange how you repeat that phrase often enough when you write stories about the kind of men who would make your knees weak and only know how it truly feels after you've stopped writing those kinds of stories.

And how about the stories of the great kissers, who kiss like you've never been kissed before. Each time you kiss somebody, you hope he'll turn out the greatest kisser in the world; even if he isn't the greatest kisser in the world, you want to believe he is because you've painted yourself in the corner where he will be the only guy you'll be kissing for the next few weeks, months, years. You wrangle that kind of commitment from him before you get to kiss him and suddenly, you're stuck, you have no choice, you can't back off because, um, his kiss isn't what you expected. Or even though there's no commitment yet, you decide to live with his non-spark kissing because you don't think anyone else will come along who's as nice and sweet and into you.

But this one. He's nice. Sweet. Into me. A lot of other, better things too numerous to mention. And, mygod, kisses like there's no tomorrow. If ever I were to be crucified upside down, only to be released if I would say he wasn't really all that, I would scream his prowess all the way to the moon and back and be crucified till dead. That's how great a kisser he is.

I would describe how he kisses, in true erotica-writer fashion, but just remembering him leaning in and blurring out the world is enough to send me into a stupor.

I want more.

He leans in and my heart stops. He leans in and my breath is stuck in my throat. He touches me and I implode.

I swear. My knees are so useless, I don't believe I can stand anytime soon. My only thought is it's a good thing you don't need knees for kissing.