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Just a kiss

For the past few weeks I've been wearing my dead dad's jacket, because it's watertight, whereas my own jacket leaks like the rez hotel. After these last few days of sumptuous sunshine, I'm back in my own jacket today.

Dad, though, was one size smaller than I, merely extra-large instead of extra-extra, so today feels like being unbound. I know I'm just as fat as before, but wearing my somewhat airier jacket makes me feel 30 pounds lighter. 

♦ ♦ ♦

Flyering in front of the shop wasn't bring in many customers, so Stevi sent me a block and a half away, to Market @ Castro, and that's where I got kissed.

Lip to lip, the last time anyone kissed me was Margaret, last June. That's a long while without even a peck, but I'm so accustomed to the loneliness I never even think about it any more. Alone is what I've chosen, and there's no nookie when you're alone. No-one to talk to, no-one to trust, no-one to hold, hug, or smooch, but so what.

There I was, wearing the green cape and insect head, handing out flyers on Castro Street again, and along came a cheery triple — two men and a woman, liquored up and obviously intertwined all the way 'round, with hands in each other's butt pockets, laughing giddy, etc. Your basic threesome.

The woman (blonde, big smile) made a semi-clever comment about my cape, one of the men followed with another zinger, so I zinged 'em back and the four of us began pleasantly chatting. They were about to walk on down the street, but one of the men opened his arms at me, wordlessly saying, "Do you need a hug?" Beer does that to people sometimes.

My wordless reply was open arms, meaning "Sure, why not," so we all embraced like the last episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, me and three strangers at the corner of Market & Castro.

While we held that circular hug, one of the men kissed the other man's cheek, and he turned to his right to pass that smooch along to my cheek, and I passed it along to the pretty woman's cheek, and she passed it along to the first man's cheek. They were plastered and I was what the heck, so we changed directions and cheeksmooched the other way, still hugging all around. Then we all said good night and they walked away laughing. End of story, I thought, and started passing out the shop's flyers again. "Wonderful shop, down the street and up the stairs…"

But from two parking meters away, one of the men turned around and ran back to me, embraced me again and said, "You're so damn cute!"

Well, what could I say? What could I do? Manners matter, and the only polite thing to do in such a situation is kiss, so I kissed him again, this time on the lips, and added kissy sound effects — smooch! He kissed me back, slower and without any comical sounds. His eyes were closed, and his kiss lasted longer than mine, so I closed my eyes, too. It was nice. It was, uh, very nice. Nothing serious, of course, not even romantic, just two sets of lips meeting softly. No tongues, but that's probably for the better, since I hadn't brushed my teeth after an onion-laden tuna sandwich for lunch.

It was sweet, though, and it was good for him, too. He'd probably still be kissing me, but the other two pried him away, and laughingly called him a slut.

Then the three of them walked away, and I shouted after them into the evening, "Goodbye, sweet prince!" They turned and waved at me, laughed but kept walking, under the Castro marquee and down the street. My mood had morphed from "just doing my job" to Cloud Nineteen, and my fresh-pecked lips smiled now and then, the rest of the evening.

In my limited experience — very limited, I should say; high school boys with game have been kissed more than me — the difference between kissing a woman and kissing a man is mostly the stubble. To a lesser extent, it's the lack of boobs pushing at my own boobs, at least in our standing position on the sidewalk.

Other than that, though, no difference at all. A kiss is just a kiss, and as kisses go it meant nothing, but so what? It's better to be kissed on a Friday night, even by a stranger, even by a man, than not.

From Pathetic Life #10
Friday, March 31, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Pathetic Life 

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