I'm lying in typical couch make-out form, with his body pressed over me and his hands discovering curves exposed by my strategically tight jeans. After several minutes, I stop to wonder whether a change of vocabulary in his oft-repeated "damn, you're so sexy" phrase would make him taste better. With a sudden urge to uncover his intellectual side, I gently push him away, commenting that we know so little about each other. When I inquire about what he likes, about what makes his life worth living, he mutters "I don't know", suggesting I need to elaborate. I put it more simply: if he knew he were to die tomorrow, what would he have to do right now? I hope for a revealing insight into his psyche, but he answers with a brilliant, "Well, I guess I'd want to lose my virginity," as his fingers search for my bra strap. I giggle to humour him, but have no intention of letting him off the hook quite so easily.

I share my pre-dying wishes to skydive, meet Madonna or swim with sharks. He looks at me pensively, and I can tell he's actually thinking about it. "I'm not sure, I guess you're different from me, you're more involved in life, I just want to have fun." Oh, okay, because fun doesn't include having philosophical discussions about our raison d'être, breathing in inspiration at a photography exhibit or challenging one's body in a strenuous dance class? Entwined in him, I question whether this boy could ever be anything but in lust with me. Okay, I don't expect a full-fledged art freak, but something that makes him tick other than beer, weed and a flat stomach might light my fire. My standards are not high: anything that discloses a sign of uniqueness in him will do, I'll even show interest in his collection of used bandaids if there's personality hiding behind that hard body and thug-like demeanour.

Perhaps I'm wrong for thinking it should be natural for someone to want to make a connection with their steady in other ways than the obvious. Don't take me wrong, I completely dig the gym-enhanced biceps and Tommy Hilfiger cologne, and no, I'm not a stereotypical girl who needs her guy to be sensitive and gushy in order to fall head-over-heels, but man, a thought-provoking conversation would be really intellectually orgasmic right about now! But, as I have managed to gather that his Christian views on life are more anchored in his upbringing than in his personal beliefs, I feel I would tear him to pieces at the mere proposal of a debate on the right to abortion or to sexual preference.

Instead, I try to relish in the moment with my external being, as my mind strives to imagine him in a wool turtleneck and black spectacles, absorbed in an essay by Oscar Wilde. He asks me why I'm laughing, so I say he's tickling me rather than confess that the mere concept of him as being anything more than a hip-hop lovin', testosterone-throbbin' male is unfathomable.

What do I make out of all of this? Perhaps that I am too analytical of my make-out sessions. But I think the real issue at hand is precisely that: hands do the talking while minds are left high and dry.

There's definitely something lacking in this couch-bound connection. But I don't know if I'll ever be able to make out exactly what makes up a matchless make-out.