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.
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Advice in old-timey books was just plain weird, man.