Essays, Interviews, Observations, Pop Culture, Stories, and other Dodginess

I’ve Kissed

Posted on September 5, 2012

“You’re breathing in fumes/I taste when we kiss” ~ Depeche Mode

I’ve kissed. I have an earlier post, The Kissing Booth, where I refer to an actual kissing booth experience of mine. This post is about kissing, but not necessarily in a booth.  So grab a pint and wet your lips and deal with this.

Maybe it sounds like a cliché, but my first French kiss was forced upon me by my older sister’s friend. She was in upper high school. I was in 7th grade. Prior to that, when I was about a year or two younger, I was kissed on the lips by my friend’s babysitter. I don’t remember all the details. Just her lips on mine on the side of his house.

A forced kiss happened again at a work party. A lesbian co-worker planted a violent one on me as I was leaving. I think it was to piss off  her girlfriend/roommate, who was flirting with me earlier. Either that or…well it was a goodbye party after all. The place where we worked closed down. Maybe she had these pent-up feelings. Maybe not.

I briefly dated and kissed rather well a girl named Effy. She once slid down my stairs in her high heels and nearly broke her ass. One memorable kiss around that time was from a lass named Tracey. She was a south side girl from Mother McAuley High School. Then there was Lisa, a friend who asked me to accompany her to a high school dance – as friends. Somehow we ended up kissing on her porch at night’s end. We remained friends and never talked about that kiss again.

I’ve kissed cheerleaders, foreign girls, smart girls, goth girls, and punk girls. I’ve kissed two girls two weeks apart who shared the same first and last names. I’ve had several sloppy kisses with the ex-girlfriend of a close friend. I’ve kissed Abby, a fiddle player, at a Chicago bar in what was a group kissing section among all my friends. Guys with girls, girls with guys, girls with girls, guys with guys. It was an orgy of kissing. The waitress came over with a pitcher of beer and asked “what all the kissing was about?” The pitcher was on the house.

One ex-girlfriend…at first I couldn’t stand her kisses. Then I couldn’t get enough of them. I kissed a girl in a confessional at church. And in the safe in what they called the sacristy, where they kept chalices and unconsecrated hosts.

I kissed an Irish girl I just met down the street from my Bucktown apartment. Afterwards I invited her back to my place. She declined and said to “just go home and masturbate.”

I’ve kissed.

Looking for Lilliana

Posted on August 22, 2012

I went to Annunciata Fest on the East Side of Chicago. It’s one of those church festivals with a beer garden, bands, music, dancing and kids’ rides and games.

I went there looking for Lilliana.

Lilliana is an ex-girlfriend of mine. She attended Annunciata during grade school. I didn’t. But last year I came to this fest and ran into her.  I happened to be in the area anyway, I thought I’d drop by this year for a few beers, some tacos and music. And to see if Lilliana would be there. She would be hard to find. It was crowded, and Lilly has shoulder-length straight black hair. And being this is a largely a Hispanic neighborhood, most of the gals in attendance had that look. Blondes really stood out at this thing. I saw younger and older versions of her, but not Lilliana herself. I stood alone, with my beer, near where you purchase the beer and where most people would walk by. You have to be careful here. You don’t want to be tagged as “the weird guy.” The other danger about being alone at these things is being found by “the weird guy.” You know, where he comes and talks to you. I watched one of the volunteers empty garbage cans. He seemed happy. He was singing to the music and smiling a lot. At least I thought he was singing. He had a strange tic or something to where every few seconds he had to open his mouth wide like he was saying something, and he looked real happy doing it. I dubbed him “Smiley Guy.”

There were some gals in softball uniforms, drinking beers. Local softball league girls, 21 and over league. They wore knee-length orange socks and black shorts and shirts. The kind of gals who drank Miller Lite beers between innings. I decided to take my phone out, jot down some notes, look busy. Yea, I’ve got someone I’m texting. I’m not the weird guy. Besides, the way I dress…you can’t ever put me in that category. Most of the time the weird guy has unusual fashion sense.

Weird guy found me. He was alone, walking “sideways” and wearing some sort of sleeveless T-shirt. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth. He said something to me. I couldn’t understand a fucking word he said. I asked if he wanted a light, which was strange, because I had none to offer. But that unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth disturbed me. I believe he said something about he doesn’t smoke, that he just likes the cigarette in his mouth.

Later I got myself a steak taco and thought of Lilliana. I taught her how to drive stick shift. She would wear these sexy work boots on her tiny feet and it was quite a site seeing her work the pedals. When she got buzzed after drinking, her left eye would do this cute droopy thing. She had a unique walk, and I used to imitate it. I would have done it that night but she wasn’t there. I never found her. Maybe next time.

Free Pussy Riot

Posted on August 17, 2012

Free Pussy Riot. Damn you Russia, to hell. You’re still the Drago, bond villain assjacks we’ve known and loved.

Poor Pussy Riot. I’m hearing they’ve received a two year sentence. I once had a “Free Winona” T-Shirt. Time to break out the “Free Pussy Riot” ones.

From Russia with Love

Kinda cute without those Chinese sun masks or whatever they wear. The one on the far left looks like an ex-girlfriend of mine. This really happens? Can’t we just lock up douche bags who sing spew bad karaoke, and put an end to that once and for all? And what’s with those lady guards? Can they be locked up instead?