The Anatomy of a Fumbly Lift Snog
An Office Xmas Party Story
We snogged in the lift. I was drunk. He was drunk. Two people in their 60s, proving recklessness has no expiry date.
“You like teeth,” he said, mid‑snog.
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but it didn’t sound like a compliment.
I don’t kiss much these days, which is strange, considering I used to be able to snog a man for hours. I recall being in a sex club in Cap d’Agde with my then partner, who looked like Sting but with a Scottish accent, and kissing on the edge of the outdoor dance floor for what felt like an hour before making our way to the private rooms downstairs. Back then, kissing felt like diving into warm water: instinctive, immersive, endless.
