Monday, March 28, 2011

A Tragedy in Two Lips

Imagine the perfect evening... a fine-mannered waiter crossing your private dining room, silver tray, glasses and wine in hand... and as he approaches your table, he trips on his shoelace and there goes the 1945 Chateau Mouton Rothschild, splattered all over the beautiful marble floors. So close. Could have been a great evening! Alas, some things are just never gonna be.

Like a bad kisser becoming a good one. Ain't gonna happen.

My neighbor Philippe thinks it could happen. I think at 40 years old, there's a snowball's chance in Satan's pizza oven he'll ever be more than an insipid tongue-prodder. I know what you're thinking. "Teach him! You can show him how to be a good kisser. It's such a small thing." After all, he is lovely. He's kind, fun to hang out with and easy on the eyes. But that's where it stops - once my lips have been penetrated by his tongue, the cold reality that this man doesn't have a clue what he's doing and likely would jab me like a jackhammer were we to turn our vertical flirtation into a horizontal event hits me like a big, frozen icicle. He can't kiss for beans. I'm turned off immediately. I don't find the bulge growing in his pants to be anything more than an annoyance and I want out of there tout suite.

May some other woman conquer this insurmountable challenge. These lips have better places to explore.

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