How to Make Out Like You're in High School
Forget everything you learned about being cool. This is about forgetting how to be cool.
The Mindset
In high school, making out was the entire plan. Not a prelude to something else. Not a step on the way to somewhere. It was the destination. You showed up, you found somewhere semi-private, and you kissed like it was the only thing on your calendar for the rest of your life. That energy is what you're going for. You are not a busy adult with a morning meeting. You are a person with nowhere to be, nothing to prove, and someone you really, really want to kiss.
Location Selection (The High School Way)
In high school, the location was always slightly ridiculous. A car parked somewhere you probably shouldn't have parked. A bench behind a building. The back row of a movie you stopped watching forty minutes ago. The key ingredient was never the location itself — it was the mild sense that you were getting away with something. That's the energy. Pick a spot that feels just a little bit secret. An overlook after dark. A beach pull-off where the only light is the dashboard. A quiet parking lot where the nearest person is a quarter mile away. You want the feeling of 'nobody knows we're here,' even if nobody was looking in the first place.
The Approach
Here's what high schoolers understood that adults forget: the buildup matters more than the moment. The accidental hand brush. The long look that's about half a second too long to be casual. The conversation that gets quieter and quieter until you're both basically whispering for no reason. Don't skip the buildup. Don't fast-forward to the main event. The tension is the point. Let it build until not kissing them feels physically impossible, and then wait three more seconds.
Technique (Unlearn Everything)
Adults overthink kissing. They bring strategy and choreography to something that works best when it's messy and enthusiastic. In high school, you kissed like you meant it because you didn't know there was a way to kiss like you didn't. Start slow. Forget whatever you think you know about technique. Pay attention to what makes them lean in closer. Match their energy, then raise it slightly. Pull back just enough to make them come to you. And for the love of everything — no checking your phone between rounds.
The Steamed Windows Principle
If the windows steam up, you're doing it right. That's not a joke — it's a diagnostic tool. Steamed windows mean you've been at it long enough that the laws of thermodynamics have noticed. In high school, steamed windows were the whole trophy. The proof that the evening went well. If you look up and the world outside has gone blurry, congratulations. You've successfully forgotten that you're a person with a credit score and a dentist appointment next Tuesday.
Time Management (There Is None)
The single most important rule of making out like you're in high school is this: lose track of time. Completely. Do not check the clock. Do not think about what you have to do tomorrow. Do not calculate how many hours of sleep you'll get if you leave right now. In high school, time didn't exist when you were with the right person. Every session lasted either five minutes or five hours, and you genuinely couldn't tell which. That's the target. If you know what time it is, you're not doing it right.
The Soundtrack
In high school, the radio played whatever it played and you didn't care because you weren't listening. That said, if you're in a car, let the playlist run on something with a slow pulse. Nothing with lyrics that demand attention. Nothing that makes you think. The music should be wallpaper — present but invisible. And if a truly terrible song comes on and you both start laughing, that's actually better than any playlist you could have curated. Laughing in the middle of kissing someone is one of the best feelings available to the human experience.
The Goodbye (The Hardest Part)
In high school, the goodbye was always the worst part because you couldn't just stay. There was a curfew. A parent calling. A text that said 'where are you.' But here's what made it good: you left wanting more. Every single time. The goodbye wasn't a relief — it was a protest. You're adults now. You don't have a curfew. But leave like you do. Leave while you're still in the middle of something. Say goodnight like it physically hurts to say it. Walk away and then come back for one more. That's the high school energy. An unwillingness to say goodnight.