I’d rather kiss a mad cow on the muzzle than a smoker on the mouth.

is like the mad cow calling the herd rabid.

As to my mouth, of all my features, I wish I could possess my mouth again, just as it had been before the fire. I had my mother’s lips, generous below and above; and what kissing I had practiced, mainly on my hand or on a lonely pig, had convinced me that my lips would be the source of my good fortune. I would kiss with them, and lie with them, I would make victims and willing slaves of anyone my eyes desired, simply by talking a little, and following the talk with kisses, and the kisses with demands. And they’d melt into compliance, everyone of them, happy to perform the most demeaning acts as long as I was there to reward them with a long, tongue-tied kiss when they were done. But the fire didn’t spare my lips; it took them too, erasing them utterly.

I prefer a kiss that is so much more than just a tongue in your mouth.

A cigarette hanging from the lips of a woman is as sexy as a missing tooth on her smile.

Faithfulness lives where love is stronger than instinct.