At first, it seems necessary.
You need to make a change. Loose lips sink ships, and you could break the Titanic in half with all the spit you’ve swapped, if you, like, froze it.
So you swear off the deliciously salty taste of desperation. It’s time to grow up and show some self respect. Every kiss should be special, so that — by the scientific process of logic — includes the next kiss, and any and all facemashes ever after. At least that’s what mainstream “having morals doesn’t make you not a feminist” society makes you believe that you should believe.
Anyway, mouths are disgusting. Carbon dioxide comes out of there. Carbon dioxide obviously smells bad, especially in the morning. Who likes carbon dioxide? I know what you’re thinking: “Trees do.” Well, then go kiss a tree, you damn Hippie! And get a job! And maybe even: “Mosquitos also like carbon dioxide.” So then get a job as a lawyer, you Hippie Blood Sucker! Go on, get!
You know what else sits around in mouths? Food. In other words, UN-DIGESTED POOP. And do you know who eats food? Uh, EVERYONE. Every person you have ever kissed totally probably had little particles of pre-poop in their mouths. They basically shit into your mouth with a nudge from the little alien baby muscle who lives in the toothy vagina they call a mouth. Every person! Except dentists, because they perpetually taste like they just swished mouthwash.
Mmm, dentists. Four out of five dentists agree: “We’ve made out with you.” (The fifth called you a slut and started this whole oral-abstinence endeavor.)
After a few months, it gets bad.
You realize that you’ve never felt real desperation. That stuff before was just boredom, a montage of harmlessly gratuitous pillow fights between nerve endings and thin skin. Alien babies probing an unchartered new land out of admirable curiosity and hope for a better life. But now you are moving into desperate territory. The wall between you and Desperation is thin. Their alarm clock wakes you up every morning, and you could very well just get up at that point, but instead you just lay there for hours: disciplined, self righteous, and hungry.
You stare a little too hard at peoples’ lips while they’re speaking. You stare even harder at peoples’ lips while they are speaking in sign language, but at least that’s socially acceptable. You draw two eyes and a top lip on your first knuckle and a fat bottom lip on your thumb and go to town on him. You wonder if your own lips taste as salty as Justin Thumberlake’s. You throw away the rest of the bag of salt and vinegar chips. Somehow, you know that it’s still going to be awhile. You retrieve the bag and finish them. “Don’t ever change,” you whisper to Justin, who trembles.
After half a year, it gets better.
You easily fall in love with television characters. It’s comforting. You easily fall in love with characters in books. You don’t technically know what they look like, which is so naughty and noble of you. Maybe they don’t even have lips! Do you still have lips? You check in the mirror. You do. You sign and mouth “Thank You” and lean in pouting. You get super close to the mirror’s mouth. You look pretty good like this. Almost ready. Kinda sweaty. You close your eyes as much as possible but not all the way. Your pores are like little mouths, pursed to keep unworthy love out of your body. Your zit is ugly, but at least it had fun.
Coming to a year, you’ve gained a lot of perspective.
Nothing really seems to have changed, but it was supposed to, so it probably did! Someone special is out there, waiting just for you, with lips of honey and a heart of gold! You radiate so much self respect that it’s basically falling out of your mouth. Oh wait, that’s actually drool.
Your lip muscles have atrophied. No one will ever kiss you again, because it is probably looked down upon to kiss a slack hole. Oral morality has won again. Since you didn’t use it, they’ll refuse it. Because you didn’t snog, your mouth became a bog. You didn’t neck, so you may as well break yours. You didn’t make out, so you’ll only eat take out. Messily. Alone. Forever.