Scandal Under the Mistletoe

Photo by Paul Zoetemeijer

Mistletoe = kissing. That’s how I associate the parasitic plant that is oftentimes hung above a doorway during the holidays. But what is the true history of it? Research told me that there were several theories about how mistletoe became associated with kissing.

One theory mentioned the Celtic Druids who supposedly first valued mistletoe for its healing properties and hung it in their doorways. This was as early as the first century AD when mistletoe was used in rituals to cure infertility. Since the plant stayed green during the darkest, bleakest days of winter, it was seen as a symbol of fertility and life so it was hung above doorways for luck.

As far as the fertility part about their thinking, it was believed that the seeds were seen as life-bearing because of their sticky, semen-like consistency, which may be why the kissing became associated with the plant. Some also considered the plant to be an aphrodisiac.

Through the centuries mistletoe became known to represent, besides fertility, also vitality, and romance.

As part of some early customs, men were allowed to steal a kiss from any woman caught standing under the mistletoe, and refusing the kiss was viewed as bad luck.

Another tradition was for the man to pluck a single berry from the mistletoe with each kiss, and to stop smooching once they were all gone. (Maybe that’s the reason I was stuck under the mistletoe for so long that New Year’s Eve.)

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In modern days, the question has come up: Is it cheating if you kiss under the mistletoe?

My research came to the question, which was posed during a formal survey sent around the Thrillist headquarters — whatever that is — followed by a discussion at an undisclosed bar in Brooklyn, where 80% of the staff decided that it was, in fact, cheating if you were to kiss under a mistletoe. However, there was a verbal asterisk regarding the verdict: What kind of kiss since a peck wasn’t considered cheating?

Taking all that information into consideration, I must admit that I was a big-time cheater one particular New Year’s Eve when caught under the mistletoe.

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We were invited to an impromptu New Year’s Eve party that a group decided to put together at the last minute. It was the elite crowd who had planned the party, which made me a bit nervous about what to wear after perusing my meager wardrobe. So, I went shopping. I found a purple pantsuit with a top that had a plunging neckline that accentuated my assets of cleavage and slender hips. With a new hairdo, perfect make-up, and the proper jewelry: my dangly earrings and a necklace that guided the eyes to the soft mounds peeking out of the heart-shaped ‘V’ I wore. I felt sexy as hell.

Apparently, the man — one of the hosts, along with his wife, who were greeters at the door — thought so, too. After the wife gave my husband a quick smooch under the hanging green plant and he walked away, my turn came. The man not only planted a kiss on my ruby-red lips that was way beyond a smooch, but he continued the kiss with soft moans and a definite bulge in his trousers that had the crowd gasping in shock. I was barely aware that there were others around and that we were causing a scene. I was totally lost in that kiss.

The kiss didn’t stop. The man wouldn’t let go of me. It seemed that he forgot where he was, or perhaps he thought he needed to take advantage of the moment, which kept stretching. Minutes passed.

Photo by Julia Bonillo 

I can’t lie about not loving the position I was in and the passion I felt. My husband and I were having problems in our marriage, with him thinking his job was more important than I, so the attention was addictive.

After what seemed like more than ten minutes, I heard a female voice say, “Stop it!” And then felt the arm around my back being pulled.

We both pulled away gasping. My face, I was sure, was scarlet from that unconventional interlude, yet I felt euphoric. I didn’t care that the women were giving me the evil eye, the men were looking appraisingly.

I had the time of my life that night, despite the whispers from the females. They could find their own man to kiss — like my husband who was also a bit pissed off but trying hard not to show it.

From that night on, whenever I’ve heard the word ‘mistletoe’ I’ve felt all gooey inside with very moist underwear.