He has been told he has lips to die for, yet historically he has never considered kissing to be his strongest suit.
Too many angles, so many variables. Too much invested, so much time creating a bond of intimacy he has never felt quite ready for. This is not to say he hasn’t enjoyed it in the past, the heightened excitation of lip touching lip, the breathiness. The neural firing of all things oral, the sense of experiencing the taste-buds of another. The mighty fine mystery of mouth.
Michael has always felt a little graveled.
Although he has been assured his lips are soft not pebbly, he still worried about a multitude of abstract things during the kiss and this had often created the essential paradox:
He should always enjoy the sensation - he was almost always concerned.
He should inevitably relax during mouth onslaught - he was almost inevitably on edge.
He should ultimately derive the greatest pleasure from the act - he was almost ultimately panicked.
He should revel in his ability to illicit groans and chortles - he almost always reveled when it was over.
Head placement, pressure. The weight of his mouth, the breadth of his dimensions. Tongue issues. Machinations of the lips versus the teeth versus the tongue versus the entirety of his partner’s set-up. The moisture. The balance between chaste and desirous, between platonic and erotic, between commencement and conclusions, between wanting and demanding and placating.
So many deviations, so little time.
Prior to Fox River, Michael had a wired peep-show of kiss clips mailing through his brain. Like all the elements of his life, whether positive or negative - the Scofield RamDrive simply had a warehouse of oddments, of memories that were documented, filed and readily accessed - kissing was merely another form of life experience he processed and retained.
He had his own private kissing Ti-Vo. His internal plasma screen monitor of YouTube, where all aspects of his life were displayed - for research purposes and in case of immediate referral. So he maintained control over the memories of his life. So he always knew. And so he could rewind and reply whenever necessity presented itself and the yearn to review grew too tempting.
He often uploaded his best and worst moments of intimacy. The fights he had encountered, the reconciliations he forged. Memories of parents long since vanished. Minutes of release, hours of loneliness, seconds of pleasure, weeks of despair. The transitions from boy to man; the girls he attempted to fabricate a connection with, once he had kissed them. The women he made some sort of love with, only to be lambasted internally when he just couldn’t seem to cling to their bodies nor mesh with their souls.
It was all there.
On hard drive. His matrix of kissing, his personal history of tongue. His YouTube favourites list, playing scene after scene of his lips entangled with another. Wiring embedded into the black-box of memories, a portion of his brain only dragged out when confronted with possible oblivion, like a poorly directed flight overshooting the runway.
Strange that he should only reminisce about his love scenarios when possible disaster loomed. But that was Michael Scofield. Certain about the concrete universe, totally at ease with computation and calculation and effortless in his ability to decipher. But awkward and inept and reticent and plagued with self-doubt when it came to intimacy. He had a brain bigger than Texas and the population of India combined and plotted on a parabola to take into account differences between land area and number of people per square mile. Not many people knew that he had a mammoth heart as well. But somewhere in between his ability to reason and his ability to love lingered a wayward artery - and it fed his mother of a tumor blanketed around a low self worth.
The early Michael lost his oral virginity with Bitchwoman Amanda. She plied his younger-than-she mind with self-doubt as she attempted to capture his mouth and mold it in an entirely adaptable way for her needs alone. She clutched the back of his head and chiseled her lips into his malleable palate. He was all at sea. She cramped his mouth with her over-eager demands on his innocence. He was totally confused. She dictated the length and depth and progress of each kiss, he simply followed, feeling naive and manipulated and excited. Feeling stupid and aroused and zealous. Feeling foolish. Feeling unpracticed and inadequate. Horny and unsure and unsettled.....
.....ultimately, she took the kiss to full throttle and let him touch her and attempt sexual interaction, but everyone was disappointed. Well, Amanda was disappointed, ranting and raving, culminating in the final fling-in-face of finishing it (whatever it happened to be). Michael was merely horrified.
He wanted a kiss to build a dream on.....he got his first taste of orifice nightmare.
And it played onward, upward, inward on his personal plasma. Rewinding to remind him of first attempts best forgotten. No delete or edit buttons, no way to apply sound effects for shots at humour, no outlet to use music to ensure the scene had some saving grace and ambience.
Kissing improved for Michael though, yet he still had instances where he wondered and mused and pondered. Every single fragment of the process.
Sometimes, this abundance of thought paid off:
You’re lips, don’t stop...please......
My God, it is true what she said about you, Michael. Your mouth.....
DO NOT stop.......
Moan, groan.....air break....Oh yeah, your tongue, your goddamn witch of a tongue.....
Upon many occasions, Michael spent his sucking face time with his lips engaged in entree, his groin anticipating main course and his brain firmly entrenched in the afters of blueprint number 69, design AB squared and engineering concept 101.
Come back to me baby, you’re just not into it tonight......
Michael, why do you have to be so goddamn distant.....
Jesus, what happened to all that fire from last week, are you the only fucking lover that’s undergone a lip transplant.....
What the hell are you doing with your tongue? I told you before, not like that.....
Again, uncertainties would arise within the black-box and linger until the next time when the experience may
not have been hampered by analyzation.
The inmate Scofield brought all of that baggage and more into the fortress of Fox River. Although all bags and personal items had been confiscated at the door, the ghosting strains of self doubt were forever part of the Scofield carry-on luggage, invisible but so noticeable they might as well have been the size of an elephant.
And when he started his planned solicitation of the Humanitarian of the Infirmary, his barometre of self-worth plummeted to the very depths of the purgatory in which he was living. Then he needed to exchange a kiss for a key and Michael’s whole idea of the Prelude to sex changed in an instant.
This particular kiss was different. It was no Overture to a freaking Opera, it was the magnificence of the fat lady singing her stunning Aria.
And it left him wanting more.
I'm overworked but I'm undersexed
I must be made of concrete
“Girl Don’t Come” by Garbage
In the moments of her most graphic self-revulsion, she knew her lips had been used and abused, tainted and tormented and torn. Masticated upon and utilized in the course of lurid acts that she wished were buried beneath the morphine haze of limbo memory.
Most were. So many deviant acts of desperation and delusion were repressed or lost with the neural damage caused by the kiss of morphine, but some lingered still.
And daily, the clean, clear-headed, member of the community of sobriety - Doctor Sara Tancredi - tried to forget. Forget when she used her lips to buy some time within the echelon of school popularity, when she crashed immature, budding rosebuds into a prime member of the football team’s mouth to gain a foothold into a life she craved. Forget when she brandished her very youthful arm with open mouth and tongue as she mimicked an action she had witnessed on Beverly Hills 90210 and wondered what it felt like to position the oral cavity in such a way. Forget an incident that occurred in the kitchen of her political sanctuary of a home, when her mother - absolutely tanked into tomorrow - tried to subdue her father’s rage about the state she was in by reeking her alcoholic breath into his seething, sneering lips. And his response....God, his response! Sara often used morphine in subsequent years to repress the memory of Frank Tancredi rejecting her mother’s kiss of apology by repelling her drunken, broken body towards the kitchen door and hoisting her outside so she fell in a heap. Her mother sobbed.
She kissed often during early adulthood.
Sara found it pleasant enough, even sensually stimulating when she was not involved in a threesome with her kissing partner and lady-love morphine. Her Lady of the Veins tended to dull anything evocative, muting her normally libidos reaction to all things pertaining to kissing and sex. She was a naturally horny young woman, but the female lover dousing her veins at any given time of the day or night also extinguished overt desires.
During periods of simply being - when she wasn’t caught in the throes of drug induced ecstasy - Sara kissed and sought the comfort and warmth of another’s lips. Med students scattered throughout the years at college, guys with perfect teeth and artificially flavoured breath, boys with tongues as writhing and wriggling as rattlesnakes in her mouth. Men who wanted to take it further, to explore more than her lips and mouth with their own, and once (maybe even twice) she was involved with the stimulation of being passionately kissed by two new foes simultaneously.
She was high.
She thinks she probably enjoyed it somewhere along the line.
The photos they sent to her work inbox, accompanied by a circulating email to her colleagues, depicted the evidence of her double kiss bliss.
Goddamn it! The photos showed her with her head back and her mouth engulfing the most attractive one, while the other used his lips and teeth on her neck, which was totally exposed, of course, because she had neglected to adjust her shirt properly. Jesus Christ. She was enamored with her Drug Lover, but she got Sara to perform totally outrageous things not easily blamed upon immaturity when you were in your twenties.
Attention Staff at Chicago Central, Neurological Unit: Introducing the hot and heavy Resident Sara (Suck Me) Tancredi. Sara enjoys a night out on the town with double shots of vodka and can be very accommodating after you buy her a couple (see attached pictures) For more information, contact the Neuro Unit and ask for Sara - she sucks more than lemon with her tequila!
She kept the email to remind herself of human frailty. She unfolded the creases in the computer paper when she needed reassurance about breaking up with morphine, that she had done the right thing. She retained the email in her purse, tucked inside the zippered lining where very little else existed except for derelict tampons and tiny litters of wrappers and fluff.
To remind herself of human frailty.
It was the worse kissing moment of her life. It probably was the most sexually adventurous thing she had ever done. It was tinged with anger, frustration, the feeling that something was intrinsically wrong - then dulled with the effects of her Drug Lover.
Finally, it became a kiss reopened and a wound re-festering, with the arrival of the evidence at her workplace. She shrank under the scrutiny of her professional peer, shivered beneath the disapproval unvoiced but uttered within the eyes of colleagues, the nursing staff, older doctors.
It was humiliating, appalling. It elicited a fresh wave of penetrative love and need with morphine as she found the whole idea of human kissing too confronting and personal. At least when the fully loaded syringe kissed the inside of her elbow, it was totally individual. No other players. Simply Sara’s own lips parted in anticipation of a killer smooch, her lover poised and ready.....followed by the ultimate sinking, sodden symbol of love flying through her brazen blood.
She used her kissing ability to cram junk into her system as much as possible. She avoided the lips and bodies of the ghouls who continued to prey on her addiction and demanded payment however she could provide it. Disturbingly, it was often with her mouth. Her goddamn unloved, desperate-for-fix, do-anything-for-it mouth.
Her lips had seen better days than the twilight of alleys and the dusk of grunge - where vampires with indistinct features lurked and tempted and offered opportunities to swap bloodied lips for love potions, and where she had never been in a fit state to reject any sort of exchange. She would have sacrificed more than her mouth for her Love. Sometimes she did. Revoltingly. Repulsively. Regretfully remembered during times of extreme duress or in moments when morphine supplies dwindled and nothing could take the edge off.
Doctoring at Fox River ensured greater attention was paid to her lips and mouth. Sara knew what most of the inmates thought about as she ministered drugs and advice that fell on deaf ears. Menacing eyes perused her lips as she spoke. Eyes that had seen murder and mayhem, had borne witness to unspeakable acts of mutilation, child abuse, pillage, hate crimes - they used infirmary time to wander leisurely over her body and face as though she was fresh fruit at a market stall. She used her labcoat to hide the majority of self. But her mouth was always out there, and she knew what they wanted.
He was no different. He was so different.
From the moment he emerged from the orchestral pit of the penitentiary, he watched her lips as though he sought to glean more from her than she was actually saying. He observed as intently as if hearing impaired, almost analyzing her so closely as though he was afraid he would miss something if he averted his gaze.
The instant she returned the glance of lip gazing, he kissed her. She’d heard the Symphony before, enjoyed the experience of magnificent crescendos through the concert. But this was no Prelude to the main music of sex. No way. The micro-seconds of the infirmary kiss were an Operetta in itself.
And from that semi-quaver on, she wanted the encore.
“Caterpillar” by The Cure
“You’ve gotta stop doing that or I will never move from this bed.”
She is so utterly energized by the way he is kissing her during post-sex meltdown/rile-up, she finds words difficult to muster.
“That’s not what you said a couple of hours ago. I never heard the words ‘you’ve gotta stop, in fact...I understood the opposite to be true.”
He speaks lazily, his speech punctuated by drawn-out, mesmerizing syllables, his own mouth not wanting to form words lest he misses an opportunity to kiss her.
“Shouldn’t we be doing other things”
Abstractly, she thinks, she’s not referring to sex. Because kissing him and him returning oral attentions is no Prelude to anything, it is a Symphony within itself.
He immediately thinks of sex, but basks in the here and now of the kiss session, because kissing her is no Overture to any Opera. Everything about kissing her is the magnificence of Aria.
“Like...like, being fugitives, getting ready for tomorrow.”
It is their first night together and she is amazed how quickly time has escaped them. If the Infirmary Kiss was the true Prelude to this night, Sara is so pleased she didn’t rush the early movement of the orchestra.
“Nah. We’ve got a few more hours. A few more hours of this.”
He can barely believe the scene that has unfolded this night on his private plasma screen. As he trundles her over so she lays fully on top of him, he concentrates all his effort on the Symphony of the Kiss, the complete fornication of her mouth. If their time in the train bathroom was a Prelude to this kissing session, Michael is so glad the maestro had interrupted them mid-medley.
“I never thought we would have this much time....”
Sara cannot believe their fortune of hours combined with privacy composed of solitude. She revels in all his oral abilities.
Michael cannot believe their fortune of finding each other combined with compatibility composed of chemistry. He basks in all her oral abilities.
She has never really derived a level of histrionics during a kissing session. Tonight she is on the verge of demanding his lips and mouth be scorched to her own for the entity of the Opera.
He has never really derived a level of orgasmic pleasure during a kissing session. Tonight he is on the verge of climaxing during the Prelude, the Overture and Standing Ovation of their kissing Symphony.
“How long then? How long before we leave?”
She wants him to say never, he is unwilling to speak at the moment.
“Michael? Soon, is it soon? What time did you organize with Lincoln?”
He realizes she won’t let up until he uses his mouth for something else, she wonders why she is wasting split-
seconds of oral time on talking.
She’s moved away from his face slightly to let him speak, he feels the absence of her lips like a screechy violin.
He curls his musician fingers around the base of her skull, she is danced into the full tango position as mouth accosts mouth.
She’s trapped somewhere between a crescendo and allegro, he dictates pace while she conducts the melody.
Michael is a convert of kissing as the ultimate musical composition.
Sara is a convert of kissing as the ultimate musical mindblower.
She uses her lips in ways she has never imagined. He uses his lips in ways she never imagined he would.
He engages her lips constantly, she receives his oral attentions with vim and vigor.
She engages his mouth readily, he receives her oral attentions with smiles, then serious intensity.
Sara forgets the previous instances where her lips and mouth have been used for blows of the tuba, Michael forgets he ever stressed about the fundamentals of playing clarinet.
She feels pure jazz. He breaths total R & B.
Michael lingers on her lips with tones of lilting cello, Sara runs her tongue along the shaft of his with canyons of cymbals.
There are no fireworks, God no, the light and heat is all down below. The face, the mouth is all about the music.
She kisses in time to the brass section of her brain. He smooches in rhythm to the strains of woodwind and percussion.
He caresses her mouth with his tongue during Encore 1, she changes their body positions to the sound of high hat and bass.
And as the acoustics settle and the lights dim further, they are finally at peace with the Symphony of Kissing.
The music they dance to is their own.