When he was a little kid, he used to make his hand into a fist and attempt to kiss it the way he saw people kiss each other on TV. He would stick his tongue out and make smacking noises and generally seduce his tiny, pale fist until he got bored of it and stopped. It was a natural curiosity, his mom said, when his dad asked why their son was always going around treating his hand like an object of lust. For his part, he never realized that he was doing anything weird, until he got to middle school and everybody around him started kissing each other and he still only had his hand.

His first girlfriend didn't come along until he was sixteen and he was terrified that she'd leave him if he wasn't a good kisser. By that time, he'd stopped practicing, but then he got so nervous that he started to curse himself for not practicing more. The night that she leaned in and pecked him on the lips and then lingered like she was waiting for him to take the next step and kiss her properly, tongue and all, he started laughing kind of hysterically and told her all about the TV and his hand and his dad thinking he was a weirdo and his mom telling him that as long as he didn't do anything inappropriate like that in public then it would all be okay.

She just stood there, and watched him, and listened, and when he was done she took his hands and kissed both of his palms and then pressed her palms to his lips. He kissed her hands and blushed fiercely and then she leaned in and said, "I guess we should practice together, then." His embarrassment didn't fade, but they did practice. And practice. And practice. And the next time they kissed, she confessed that she used to make out with her Ken dolls, and he thought that made them even.