Three months later.
“Old habits die hard.”
Napoleon once said.
You see, he fucked up half of Europe. He was arrested, freed, and made the same mistake of trying to dominate the world.
Just like his nephew and Mike Tyson.
The latter, learned that you shouldn’t beat people just in the ring, but in real life as well. Life is that hard.
“Old habits die hard.” Really. Even Hitler tried to invade Russia. History should teach us to learn from other people’s mistakes... if nothing else.
Now, see this.
I’m with this all tattooed redhead now. So much tattoo it’s even hard to know whether she’s white, brown or black. She looks like a human canvas, some sort of plastic surgery in which they add prints instead of skin. But she has that jockey’s body. Legs stronger than a horse and... on second thought, she’s redhead, so she must be white anyway.
Fu-uh. Fu-uh. Fu-uh.
Damn sticking leather seat.
Yeah, we’re in my car.
It seems like I’m losing my skin every time I peel off from the seat to move better inside her.
At first, it all seemed like the best of all ideas.
But then she kissed me.
And that made me ask the old question of why the hell isn’t there porn for kids?
No, you retarded reader, I’m not saying I’m a pedophile!
Nor am I talking about child pornography!
The fact is that people jump right into fucking, and forget about learning/knowing how to kiss. The most human concept of all. Moreover, our pseudo-open society, hypocritical for discussions on freedom of expression, refuses to break such silent taboos. Such things have to be taught! Otherwise, many people will suffer in this world!
Isn’t it a noble requirement?
It’s with strategies like this that we end world hunger and war.
I wonder what the UN had been doing.
However, we have all made this same mistake a few times. Maybe because we don’t need to kiss much when we’re having sex, since the energies are concentrated south of the mouth. Or because we are so excited that we forget to think. We stand on top, behind, sideways; women stand in the bottom, on top, back, butterfly, crawl, and almost all those positions make it impossible or at least make kissing difficult. But the truth is that Murphy’s Law always works when we least want it to.
But then Peter, my best friend, tells me:
– What do you mean?! You left that hottie!? Is it because of Lucy, my friend?
We are in a downtown establishment that’s in existential crisis between being a bar, a nightclub or a thrift store. Such crises are more often nowadays with variations between vegan-integral-gluten-free food, art exhibit or something else that should be cool for everyone but ends up being just OK. I’m with Peter—I repeat: my best friend—taking some time off from my other nighttime activities. We do this once a week: we drink and talk about shit all day. Just me and him. This is my Shabbat, my 7th day rest. We’ve been friends for a long time. We met at medical school. He went for few years but dropped off. He said he couldn’t handle the pressure, the extra shifts and especially so much illness and death. But what did you expect?, I asked him. Peter just answered: to study, maybe heal and see some smiles. And I always thought: I’m glad I only have to deal with the dead. However, our friendship was always this laid-back, nothing very serious, but we continued to see each other along the years. He was even my best man in my wedding. I think we both need each other, although many times it’s only for me to hear his complaints about his girlfriend, my friend Jessica. We both had this need to have a male friend, like an anchor for the physical world, sanity in some way. Our friendship wasn’t like Krishna and Arjuna, Rumi and Shams or even Jesus and his disciples but of course quite often, like John, I only baptized Peter on hearing me teach my experiences, like now...
– Look, Peter, it’s all right to have sex. – I answer. – But I really abide by the prostitutes’ fucking philosophy. The masters of the ancient tantric art. But dating someone is about kissing her more than having sex. And that’s kind of hard to put up with for some people. I knock on the table. – Trust me: sometimes it’s way too hard! As for Lucy, we are still “together”, but it’s hard to shift from the fifth gear to the first again. It’s a slow, gradual, steady process.
– That’s a lot of shit! He burst out laughing. – Steady?! – Peter claps his palms on his thighs. – Explain it to me!
– Some people think they’re like dentists with their tongues. – I try to forget Lucy. – Others think they’re a snake or a fucking cat. I mean, they get their tongue hard as if they were shooting a blow gun, like an erection in your mouth...
– Argh! Disgusting! Stop! Stop! – Peter seems to have a cardiac arrest, the way he punches his chest in a reversed cardiac arrest from how hard he’s laughing. – I don’t want to hear any more! I give up!
– You asked me to explain! Now listen! Or, they make the same movement repeatedly as a retard, which certainly should not exclude men. Imagine kissing a clock’s seconds hand, it’s like that. – I make a circle with my finger, being more educational. – And sometimes they don’t even care to change the fucking direction. Then you have to come up with Plan B. As the redhead went towards my mouth – I go on – I was drifting towards her neck. So I found neutral territory and she thought I was trying to give her more pleasure. A win-win situation. She was happy and I was even happier.
– Mother of God... – Which is yet another nickname for the “Virgin Mary.”
– Yeah, and they still say porn is adult stuff! They should teach a fucking massage lesson in sexual education classes. Then the kids would have to read between the lines. Perhaps learning about an Ayurvedic kiss ... the Indians are the experts on that.
The thought of me over the redhead’s tattooed breasts wouldn’t leave my mind. They were firm and I think she had tattooed their areolas white or snow, which was kind of nice. Then I went further south, which was also tattooed. All to avoid her mouth.
– I think I get you – Peter can’t stop laughing –, but Jessica is a whole new story, she’s kind of violent... sadistic perhaps. I’m fine with it. It seems like she likes it.
Now it’s the image of Jessica on top of Peter in bed, on the floor and in the car, that pops into my mind. She was always more aggressive than Peter, who was more submissive, although they both almost always fought at the same volume. However, I believe that what really counts is when we are most vulnerable. So Peter was proving he didn’t deal well with situations in which he had to make a choice or to bear its consequences. But one gets what one deserves.
– Ha! What do you know? You’ve been with her for ten years. She’s your only girlfriend.
– Yeah, man. Oh Mother. – There goes the Virgin Mary again. – I was thinking about it, too. We fight a lot, don’t we?
My eyebrows go up as if wind had blown long forgotten sails.
– Seriously?! Are you really asking this?
– Oh, okay. We do fight a fucking lot! He chuckles, but now it’s dull, almost ashamed. He grabs the glass and takes a sip, but he really wanted to get his mouth busy with something but talking.
The thought of Jessica now throwing the cellphone on Peter replays like a gif in my head. Of her throwing a magazine, slapping his shoulder and so on.
– Good to see that you have recovered well from your father’s death, Dante. – That idea catches me by surprise. Was that all he was thinking about until now? I decide to resume the subject.
– Yeah... but you love each other anyway. That’s what matters... that’s what they say, at least. They say it so much they must be right.
Peter sighs with empty eyes suddenly.
– Yeah... Maybe you’re right. – I don’t understand if he agrees with me or with some secret idea like “maybe you’re right to change the subject.”
I gesture broadly, spilling some of my drink to try to get him out of any depressing thought to which he was being sucked.
– You know what I don’t understand?
– What?! – Peter now seems to be more curious. His head is no longer leaning down. His eyes flicker and open.
– You can tell how people are by the way they do it... it’s one way, at least. If people are uninteresting from their inside, it wouldn’t surprise me that everyone else becomes superficial and treats them as objects.
– Damn! – This speaks by itself. – I’d never thought about it when it comes to us! I have to think it over...
– Peter, I’m still talking about the kiss.
– You son of a bitch, still on that?! I thought you were talking about me! Me and Jessica, man! – His face was saddened by a second, before exploding in his usual guffaw and body language.
– Look, I already told you: you love each other. That’s what matters, but...
– But what? – Peter then clenches his two fists on the table with as much attention and tension as he could, leans back and silences himself as if in supplication, or the ellipsis, the three dots at the end of a page when you know there’s more to come.
– Ah, never mind.
I threw my hand into the air.
– Hey! Say it!
Again, fists against the table. The percussion of “please.”
– You don’t know who’s best for you until you try other girls! There, I said it, you boring son of a bitch!
Peter places his hand on his chin again, but now thoughtful. Another kind of ellipsis.
– Heck no. Get a fucking self-opinion, please. Bartender, another round for us, here.