(no subject)

[benchilada]

I’ve never been as much of a slut as I could have (should have?) been. I've never known why. I just never did all the people things I knew I could have.

My brain is terrible and broken, but somehow—just as I remember where I purchased nearly all of my 1500 books and 300+ cd’s—I remember everybody I’ve kissed, male and female (Insert Shock and Awe Here) and all the circumstances, and everything that those moments remind me of.

I wonder how many of these people I'll end up writing about.

For now, for the first, I remember E.O.

Not all that thrilling, from an outside point of view, I’m sure, but…

We were in goddamned Texas, of all places. Sure, we were both from Illinois, in high school, but at that moment, we were both in Texas. Houston. In a stairwell. At a college. 

I don’t remember the precise details of what made us do it, but it started as a joke at a Houston Astros game, some joke about the two of us kissing. You see, we both have huge lips, so somebody made a comment of some sort, about us kissing being like two frogs kissing or something.

I want to say that it was her “boyfriend”—whom I knew was gay long before he did—who started it, but who can say? 

In any event, when we returned to the dormitory where we were staying, where, in-between trying to show the world—or at least, The Discovery Channel—how smart we were, we secreted away to the stairwell.

And after Nervous High School Joking, we finally kissed. It didn’t take long for us to go from “nervous kiss” to “holy shit, she really has got huge lips like me, and I’ve never kissed anybody quite like this, holy shit, she’s really pressing her breasts against me and her skin is so smooth...” 

She was Amply Endowed, she was. But she was Terribly Christian, so no matter how far our kisses went, it was only light petting. We’re talking running-between-first-and-second-base-because-the-shortstop-has-the-ball-and-wants-us-out kind of light petting.

I just used a sports analogy. 

For sex.

Kill me, for the good of the children. 

We seemed to think we were in a bad spy movie. She would leave the group and head to the top of the stairwell. I would head off a few minutes later, perhaps taking the elevator to the top floor, maybe walking the whole way up.

We thought this was fooling everybody. We thought they didn’t know what we were doing. They all knew we were going off to make out. 

But they couldn’t have known the details, like how kissing a girl in another state is amazing, even if it’s one you see every day, how every time you hear a door open down the stairwell, you’re sure somebody is “coming to stop you” and how you can feel the motor of the elevator humming when you press her against the maintenance door, and sweet Jesus, those lips.

And how the novelty of light petting gives way to frustration after a few days. I never wanted to have sex with her, but the ideas that were in her head were that there were only two things that boys and girls did together, Kiss or Have Sex, so even lifting a shirt more than a few inches was forbidden. 

I wanted to do more for her, to her, but it was not to be. I don’t remember if our kissing continued past our return to Illinois. My memory is for shit sometimes, it really is. Okay, most of the time.

I do remember three things: 

1)      When I got back, I didn’t feel so bad about having a vaguely-girlfriend-at-the-time person waiting, as she had also been off kissing,
2)      People like that always marry the first person they have sex with, or vice versa,
3)      “She had kisses sweeter than wine.” 

My computer is playing the theme to HILL STREET BLUES.

It’s time to let the Bushmill's and Smirnoff Ice's run their course, maybe watch a samurai movie, and go to bed. 

I miss all of you, even the ones I’ve never met.
Perhaps you're the ones I miss most of all…

 

benjamin
Listening to the Razormaid remix of "Soviet Snow"...now "True Dreams of Wichita" - Soul Coughing

PS – Quote of the Day? “I'm wearing a skirt and your wife's shirts.”