Last drink: Fosters. Last meal: Fish ‘n’ chips. Last movie: Cloud Atlas. Reading: Clean by Juno Dawson. Brush teeth: Once a day. Last shower: Last Sunday. Speaking appointments: All week. Favourite group: SMART. Favourite facilitator: Amy. Outfit: £110. Trainers: North ridge. Slippers: Need some. Last cinema: The end of oak street.
I
remember one time (here we go again) when I was standing in a nightclub minding
my own business. I wasn’t on Es, flailing all around the show like a sailor on
a ship at high sea, losing my balance, clattering into others, falling over
flat on my face and laughing about it. I was merely perched by the bar sipping
a beverage, acting low and doing nothing.
To my great surprise a pretty young lass came over and laid the lips on me. A simple peck, no tongues. I felt so enamored. I felt so selected. Why don’t chance events like this happen anymore? I did look the part that night. FUBU hockey top and North Face jacket. I think I might have had combat trousers on. And Nike Shox. Can’t recall what socks I was wearing. I used to always wear black socks. Now black is the last colour I’d buy. I feel like an angel in white socks with shorts. Especially if the rest of my outfit is white. Which it never is by the way. Because I'm no angel. Not unless I'm a minimum of three months clean.
*
Would
you ever dream of approaching a random stranger and kissing them on the lips? I
wouldn’t. This was 25 years ago. I’d marry her now, no matter what she looked
like. The memory rekindles dopamine in my grey matter. She was such a sweet
girl, she obviously saw something in me which everyone else has missed.
Then there was the other time something similar happened, only much more recently. I was with my mentor in a bar sat with two women. One of them was a horror but one of them I fancied. The one who I fancied kept getting fobbed off by my mentor, he was saying she was crazy, but I really liked her. She sat there stoic not saying a word. The woman who was a horror came across and stuck her tongue down my gob. She kissed me passionately. I didn’t like anything about her but I kissed her back out of respect. I should have pulled away from her before her slimy tongue entered my cakehole but it all happened so fast, I felt like I had during my first ever kiss as a teenager, when Emma Barr had chewed my face off with bright red lipstick. I walked home spitting out her saliva from my mouth all the way.
*
I know a man who said that his tongue was directly connected to his penis, and that when he started kissing with women he got excited downstairs straightaway. As if a tight cord of flex joined the two organs. I was once the same myself. I picked a street girl up in my Vectra from the city one time. I politely asked her if I could kiss her. She was expecting me to park up and ram my big rock-on python into her from the rear over the bonnet in an abandoned lay-by opposite the garages with the wind whistling over my arse crack but all I wanted is a nice cozy warm snog and a love bite.
“You don’t have to ask,” she replied, and we kissed while I was driving. She tasted like a mango-flavoured watermelon. My hands were sensitively holding her face, stroking the contours of her cheek, like she was a princess not a whore, and she controlled the steering wheel. Then I instigated her giving me a beefy (love bite) on the neck. I sported it in work the next day like a proud peacock. Even the boss was asking about it. I said it was a bruise from boxing. You don’t do boxing, he said. I started last night, I lied. What did it have to do with him anyways?
*
I’ve
had around just over a dozen kisses in my life (a dozen different women, that
is). I counted them up one time in a sentimental list. Some are more special
than others. One woman used to stick her tongue right down to the bottom of my
throat and wiggle it around while taking deep breaths through her conk like a
suffocating deep sea scuba diver. I could taste what she’d last eaten three
meals prior. Horseradish, wouldn’t you know. The fact that she reminded me of a
pig turned me on intensely.
It goes back to a story I wrote for an erotic magazine called UGLY SEXY. Just because a woman might be ugly, doesn’t mean she still can’t be sexy as all hell. What’s the point in a symmetrically-faced Scandinavian chick from Vogue, if all she’s gunna do is lie there like a bag of potatoes while you do all the work? That’s how the experts measure beauty by the way – via symmetry. Bone structure and all that. Give me a fattened pig in lippy who’s willing to ride me like a cowgirl.
Or even better, hold the steering wheel as I’m driving.
Love, A x
