Great Moments in Movies: The Rocky Kiss

I’m feeling a little like an underdog today, like the odds are stacked against me, so I thought I’d have some quality time to myself this morning before I head into the world for the sixth day of work this week. I’m feeling like I’m losing my leisure a bit, and Virginia Wolf states that to be akin to losing one’s soul, so I’m taking it back by force. I’m watching Rocky. My coffee’s almost cold, but it’s still strong and good.

Rocky has just kissed Adrien for the first time. I think this should really go down as one of the finer cinematic kisses ever done. It’s all so unlikely, like a kiss between Harold and Maude. She’s pushing 30 and she’s never been kissed. The absolute vulnerability portrayed by Talia Shire in that scene’s just as sexy as any of the va-va-va-voom shown by Hollywood’s vixens non-pareil.

It’s pretty easy to go too long without being kissed. It’s awful to be in the middle of the kissless times of life, but there it is. There’s something about a kiss that always makes you miss it.

This scene is how a great kiss feels after you’ve been stuck in a dryspell of Saharan proportions. Whatever’s wrong in the world, the naive part of me believes it could be fixed by great sessions of smooching. I’m such a fool, I know, but it’s a nice belief to keep in the back pocket. I’m not a dreamer, but I have my lapses.

I’m at the point where I no longer miss the recent relationship, but I’m certainly wishing I could break up all the tension that is my present life-status with the odd makeout session. I wonder why I’m not thinking about sex? Maybe sex, for me right now, symbolizes far too many complications and struggles. I really don’t want the complication, I want the carefree abandon that making out on the sofa symbolizes for me. Days with the parents out at a card game and the boyfriend sneaking over. The good old days. Yes, we’ve hit nostalgia. How can you tell another birthday is looming? I feel like I’m devolving, but my vital stats are continuing to argue that assessment. Damn them anyway.

And this is what that one kiss brought up for me. And yet I’ll continue watching the film.

Okay, wait a second: I’m specifically remembering being at a party in my teens, and sneaking out back with a boy who thought I was hot ‘cos I was wearing ox’s-blood Doc Marten 9-hole boots. We sat on the stairs, lit from above, as we necked and necked and necked for what seemed like hours. Every time his hand would try to cup my breast, I’d bat it away again. Later, he spread the rumour that it was he and I who’d been making the camper rock’n’sway. I assure you, I made his life hell. But the kissing, man, at that moment, there was noplace better to be.

Sadly, I gave the boots as planters to a chick I once loved who totally flaked out on me. Now I have the tattered remains of my Aussie Boot Co. boots.

This girl needs some boots fer walkin’ all over some boys. That’s what she needs. I should start a boot fund, then go on a shopping quest and keep a photographic record for blogging about my quest for the boots and the fall-out of owning said boots. I mean, really, I’m a eurotrash girl on a scooter. I need a cool new coat for winter scooting and boots. If you want me to get the Walkin’-All-Over-You punk-rock eurotrash girl boots and keep a record, then PayPal me and put “boot fund” in the subject field. We shall stomp together.