Lip service: Kissing School teaches the art of the sublime smooch

Think Post Office or Spin the Bottle. Add 30 years; mix in marriages, kids, mortgages and "baggage." Throw in the sounds of didjeridoo and Deepak Chopra reading poetry and a therapist talking of chakras in an entertaining, Mae West kind of way. You might well end up at Kissing School, an all-day class held in Seattle several times a year that purports to teach the art of, well, kissing.

Last Saturday, inside a spacious room at the Good Shepherd Center in Wallingford, six couples filed into a spacious, well-lit room.

Their ages ranged from late 30s to mid-50s. All were from the Pacific Northwest and were married, save one set of very close friends. Dressed casually, they lugged all manner of bedding — pillows, comforters, quilts, camping mattresses — to arrange "love nests" where they would do almost all of their kissing exercises. To a pair, they claimed space against a wall. The first couple to arrive had dibs on the only corner, although privacy was somewhat of a casualty as daylight streamed in through wide-open windows.

Kathy and B.J. Shea have been married 18 years; attending the workshop was Kathy's idea, but B.J. went along with it. While he was somewhat skeptical, he said he supports his wife and "benefits wholly from her interest."

Another woman, Mary (who asked that her last name not be used), married some 11 years, had clipped an ad for the school from The New Times four years ago before finally mustering the courage to attend.

"We need some help. I'm looking forward to connecting," she said. Her husband, Mark, is a new but ardent initiate of tantric method, and he bore the criticism well. His wife's grin at the end of the course indicated that he'd made significant progress.

Sharing energy, emotion

Kissing School founder Cherie Byrd, 54, of Vashon Island, found herself in similar straits about five years ago.

A self-described "luscious" kisser, Byrd came up with the kissing-school idea while dating a man, 57, who, in her opinion, "didn't know how to kiss." She taught him — and found her calling.

Her theory is that technique itself doesn't carry the kiss — it's the energy transmitted, the emotion behind it that informs the kiss. Technique may translate the intention skillfully or not, but that's more a matter of finesse, Byrd believes, and perhaps even more the quality of presence within the act.

The kissing course was a toe-dip into tantra, the art of energy mastery that builds internal strength and heals through touch. While some teachers peddle tantra as a purely sexual experience, Byrd feels they are just trading in on the buzz.

"Sex is just a great place to practice tantra," she said.

"I don't do the clothes-off thing," said Byrd. "It just gets too weird for everybody."

The lip-locking sessions have been attended by about 800 people over the past five years, estimates Byrd. She charges $225 for couples, or $125 for singles. Currently there are a few men on the single waiting list. She says that people come from around the country to attend the seminars because couples everywhere need help connecting.

"We have no education for making love in this culture," said Byrd.

Messy kissers can be reformed

The need for kissing lessons is somewhat attributable to a misperception of what is a kiss. It is not, according to Byrd, what we see on soaps and in most movies. In fact, the highly stylized Hollywood rendition has eroded what is authentic in kissing and given society a distorted impression of just what a kiss is, or rather, what it could be.

That is a recipe for love disaster.

"A bad kiss can end the relationship," said Byrd. In her circuitry, people don't just kiss; they drop a bit of their soul into another person.

"Bad" kissing is symptomatic of other issues: a sexual kiss is empty and impersonal. A "power" kiss fails to give. A messy, chin-wiping kiss is diplomatically reduced to an act of performing, or not being present. Kissers like that can be coaxed into better kissing.

During Saturday's five-hour class, Byrd sat the group in a circle to begin.

"It takes a lot of courage to come to something as bizarro as a kissing school," she said. The nervousness in the room was palpable; Byrd's so-so jokes met with hearty laughter.

Clothes are practical: The raciest thing observed was a purple bra strap that slipped out from under a sleeveless shirt. There's no mood music along the lines of Barry White or "The Mission" soundtrack, but stuff more of the Nawang Khechog's "Sounds of Peace" ilk.

Many exercises involve one person lying somewhat prone as the other kissed or rubbed. The first kissing exercise was a 10-minute, one-way kiss.

Most exercises weren't wildly weird: There was kissing of the hand, foot-massaging, back-to-back dancing, pretending to say hello and goodbye kisses, and lots of breathing and sighing.

After each exercise, Byrd gave couples time for pillow talk. Bedded down in their nests, some pairs cuddled with legs tangled and smiled a lot. Others clutched pillows like down shields and from the looks of it, traded some constructive criticism.

If a couple look like they aren't really getting into it, Byrd frets, saying that they are "barely breathing" or "pretty mental."

'Juicy' kissing

Over the years, Byrd says, she's noticed some gender-specific tendencies. She says that men have trouble being in the present, rush through kissing and don't take hints well. Women like to give hints rather than speak directly, give too much and fail to be receptive to what their male partners are giving. Good kissing involves giving but also being open to being kissed.

She paced the center of the room inciting couples to passion.

"Claim him! Claim those lips with your tenderness!" she commanded during the "juicy" kiss-ercise, which involves feeding juice to the other partner. It didn't work for every couple. One pair started laughing so hard that others stopped their slurping to laugh with them.

As the day wore on, the class settled into a rhythm. By its 5 p.m. conclusion, the couples, hair tousled, seemed blissed out.

As they folded up their blankets, Bonnie and Troy, the "just very good friends" couple, said that the experience was worth it, despite only marginal gains in lip-skill.

"I would move my mouth around — even in receiving mode — I would stick in control," said Bonnie of her former technique. Troy gazed at her in adoration.

"She was a wonderful kisser to begin with," said Troy. "It lowered the walls a bit."

Sarah Anne Wright: 206-464-2752 or swright@seattletimes.com