First blood (or: Lost story from my birthday party, number one)

It’s happened on each of my three birthday parties, and always in my kitchen: a committed, attached or unavailable-in-some-way-or-another young woman accosts me against the fridge with a passionate kiss in front of a witness.

This is the story of the last one.

Her: You handled those cops so well!

Me: It’s just negotiation, that’s all.

Her: I would’ve been screaming at them, telling them to fuck off and probably get arrested.

Me: The trick is not to do that, see?

Her: Well, you deserve a drink. Shot of Jagermeister?

Me: Please.

She pours two shots. She drinks one, and pours the other down her cleavage.

Her (stage whisper): Drink.

Me: Uh…er…well, okay.

Soon afterwards, Sam walks into the kitchen, sees what’s going on, but can’t resist watching.

Her: You’re so cute.

Me (thinking): You’re damned right.

She leans into to deliver a long lingering kiss, which includes a very sharp bite to my lower lip. She then leaves to catch up with her boyfriend.

Sam: Wow! You’re a machine, man!

Me: Ow.

My lower lip is really smarting, and I place my index finger on the sore spot. There’s a drop of blood.

Me: Ooh. Sort of like my last girlfriend. No, wait — the second last one.

Sam: That’s just freaky!

Me: Strangely enough, I’m really turned on right now.