Somewhere near Sparrow’s Hollow, Massachusetts, wedged between an abandoned corn maze and a souvenir stand that only sells dreamcatchers and beef jerky, you’ll find the Smooching Stone.
According to legend — and a very enthusiastic handwritten sign — anyone who kisses the stone will be “blessed with eternal love, lifelong luck, and possibly spiritual enlightenment, depending on the sincerity of the kiss.”
Depending on the sincerity of the kiss. Let that sink in.
The stone itself is about the size of a trash bin. It sits at the end of a dusty trail that looks like it’s been through three floods and a mild drive-by shooting.
There’s a metal plaque, partially obscured by mildew, which solemnly declares this “A Site of Sacred Romantic Energy Since 1862.”
No citation. No historical verification. Just a lot of lichen and the lingering scent of wet dirt and dead leaves.
And yes — you are encouraged to kiss the Smooching Stone. Full contact. Lips to rock. Preferably after waiting in line behind thirty or forty other hopeful romantics who, judging by appearances, had not been overly concerned with oral hygiene.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the thing, trying to calculate how many strains of influenza, mono, and poor life decisions might be clinging to that stone. A family of four ahead of me posed for pictures while each took turns smooching the rock with a sort of grim, dutiful air — like they were paying taxes to the gods of desperation.
When it was my turn, I considered simply leaning down, pretending, and moving on. But the woman manning the nearby “Official Kissing Stone Souvenir Booth” (offering “Blessed Lip Balm” for $9.99) was watching me with eagle-eyed determination. Participation was clearly mandatory.
I tapped the stone with the absolute barest possible brush of my lips and immediately regretted everything about my life choices.
Nothing magical happened. There were no sudden romantic visions. No mystical stirring of the heart. Just the faint, lingering taste of moss, mildew, and lost dignity.
I won’t lie. A part of me did hope, ever so briefly, that there would be some truth behind the legend: that I might turn around and lay eyes on my soulmate, shuffling awkwardly while she waited for a turn with the love rock. But no. The only woman who glanced at me even briefly was a butch-looking lesbian with an angry blind chihuahua in a pet harness strapped to her chest.
If true love can be summoned by kissing a damp rock in the middle of nowhere, then I have severely misunderstood the cosmic order of the universe.
If you decide to try your luck at the smooching stone, bring sanitizing wipes and mouthwash — and maybe a new set of standards.