“I just want your extra time and your kiss.”

I’ve always thought that I was a pretty good kisser.

Until recently.

Me and the woman I had been dating for these past few weeks could never get it together, kissing-wise. She’d open her mouth too wide and I’d slobber spit down her throat and then we would knock teeth. It was like we were back in junior high.

We ultimately broke up because of it. Here was her big kiss-off:

I was a bit unsure of the romantic connection all along and then it felt solidified over something as stupid as feeling I could never get the kiss right, it never merged or connected, which seems like a Seinfeld episode in the most pathetic way.

It was even more Kramer-esque with the two women I had dated briefly before her. One woman sucked in her lips so tightly that it looked like she was holding her breath until it was over (which it was, in about 1.5 seconds) and the other simply refused to budge as I tried to pry her mouth open with all of the grace and subtlety of Gene Simmons.

I’ve always loved kissing. It’s the closeness of it that I like best, which explains why I hardly ever shut my eyes ­– I don’t want to miss a second of the juicy fun. Now I know that I’m no RPatz, Prince or Seal, but I never really questioned my osculatory skills before. For chrissakes, I use Kiehl’s Lip Balm #1 every night!

In fact, my last steady girlfriend and I could’ve been the models for Rodin’s or Klimt’s The Kiss (and thank God, not Kathryn Harrison’s). The first time our lips locked lasted close to eight hours. It was our second date and we were at the beach and after an invigorating swim, I asked if I could kiss her. She said sure, I leaned in and cue the proverbial sparks. The crashing waves provided the cliché soundtrack while we were swept away in the electric blue sky of each other (which is really the wordy way of saying “Oh my!”). We were insatiable, and didn’t care that near-naked people walking by our disheveled blanket made fun of us. We didn’t stop kissing until dusk.

Some women have told me that I’m a great kisser and others have said that I was more meh than muah, and I’ve always believed whoever I was with at the time. Of course, as every other online dating profile will tell you, it all comes down to chemistry. And that shit is as mysterious a thing as love itself. You can be wildly attracted to someone with Angelina Jolie-caliber lips and their kiss can leave you as cold and lifeless as … well, as Angelina Jolie herself.

And then there’s the converse. I once went out on a first date with a frumpish criminal lawyer, let’s call her Plain Jane, and we were drinking a bit and at the end of the night, we just started to make out like crazy while waiting for the F train (which sounds kinda euphemistic in this context) and we must’ve let a dozen of them roar by before finally coming up for air. Inexplicably, we never saw each other again.

Being on a cold streak is enough to make you forget what a red hot chili pepper suck my kiss feels like, so I texted my ex-wife to help me recall how we were in that particular department.

I’m writing about kissing. How did we kiss? Was it ever any good?

In the beginning, remember how we loved each other’s lips. Very very good.

 I do remember! Was just making sure. I’ve had some bad kissing experiences lately. I always thought I was a good kisser.

 And modest.

Ha! Maybe it’s my breath?

You have good lips.

Thanks. As do you.