In the matter of kisses, I yield the floor to the Roman poet Catullus:
You ask how many of your kisses do I need,
Lesbia, how many kisses will suffice.
As many as the grains of Libyans sands
That lie upon the perfumed Cyrenian plain
Between the sweltering shrine of fiery Jove
And the sacred sepulchers of ancient kings.
Or as many as the countless stars in quiet night
That stare down on the furtive loves of men.
Only such a number of your kisses, only this
Will be enough and above for your crazy lover,
Which neither curious eyes can number up
Nor evil tongues enchant to bind our play.
Thus does the poet acknowledge the kiss as the potato chip of erotic behavior. One tends to lead to another, and if it's all going well, it's often difficult to find a reason to stop. Paradoxically we have reason to wonder how much kissing the ancients actually did, at least based on their frescoes. More after the news.
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