Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Guilt: How utterly, utterly, gauche

What was I whining about? It was all very innocent. Nothing could've possibly happened; it was in a public place. Polite, he was being polite. No one noticed and no one did. I'm imagining things. It was an accident, that's all. A technical error. No reason to fret.

So how 'bout them prawns?


He tongued the corners of my mouth. Or that's what I think he did because after he walked away, his saliva stayed on my lips. Let me backtrack: He told me that joke about the pirate and his missing eye (which I've heard a thousand times before because men seem to have it memorized since before the release of their placentas and the cardinal rule is: laugh anyway). Then he said he was hungry. So he stood up. I looked up. He bent over and ... WHOOSH! Lip, smack, paddy wack, Peter Piper pecked.

I barely know him; surely, it was a mistake. Bad aim, confused as to where the location of my -- his? -- cheek was. When everyone in Montreal goes around bisou, bisou-ing each other, something like this was bound to occur, right? Right. But when did an air kiss require gentle lubrication and GPS know-how?

Anyway, since we were around people he knew, I'm betting it'll go over well with the girlfriend. It's deja-freakin'-vu all over again: Always the runner-up, never the crown. Lung ... collapsing ... can't breathe. How do I get myself into these things? I was only there to catch up on some news and read today's paper. Gossip drill, rumour mill: let's pray this doesn't become a high school turf war over his he-parts.

Yet another reason why voluntary confinement is the cure, not the cause.
I need to stay in more.

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