When I was about ten years old, my parent (one) sent me to the Methodist Church. every Sunday. It was probably a way of keeping me occupied on that day. Annually we used to go on a Methodist Church Sunday school picnic. That got rid of me for a whole day.
So when I was ten, I saw real kissing for the first time. Being a child of a divorced mother, and living with super prudish old-fashioned grandparents in a home culture that never went to the movies, talked about romantic love or lust, sex or passion, I was ignorant and sheltered from the realities of life.
I was sitting on the bus in an elevated position waiting to leave on our annual picnic day when my eyes fell upon two people in an office window with a frosted bottom half, doing the strangest thing. I could just see their heads and shoulders. They were pushing their faces together kissing with their lips. They seemed to be grinding their faces into each other, moving, swaying, twisting their heads. And they were using their tongues in the most grotesque manner.
Today, I can still feel a frisson of the profound physical revulsion I felt at the time, the shock and horror of watching two people, unaware of me, attacking each other with their mouths.
My upbringing has left a lot of scars.
Mouth kissing is not my thing. It’s still revolting.