I was reading through some ancient files and discovered my first ever blog entry! Looking back at it I remember how innocent I used to be and have decided to share it with you, my dear readers! I hope you enjoy it. HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!
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Not long ago I experienced what I now refer to as 'the atrocious kiss', i.e. my worst kiss ever! The kiss every girl sooner or later encounters. An informal rule the dating world keeps hidden until it happens to you. And a lesson most of us never forget. It is engraved in your memory and you are left with your own self-soothing techniques ['It wasn't that bad'; 'It could have been worse'; or 'At least I didn't catch anything nasty']. In reality, all you want to do is erase it from your conscience and never speak of it again. But being the little devious thing that I am, I have decided to blog about it instead. Take it as my religious confession [and by referring to the word 'religious' I mean no disrespect]. I have decided to refrain from using real names and will refer to the atrocious kisser as Mr. A.
I guess the thing that puzzles me most is how late in my life it happened. I was under the impression that once I had survived high school catastrophe-free I would be immune from lousy kissers for the rest of my life. Well I sure was not! When I picture that night, I still think it would have been best if I had stayed home. The fatal mixture of alcohol intoxication, a recently broken heart, and wanting to 'experiment' with a younger guy was screaming disaster. And it all started with a friend calling that morning and insisting on taking me to a formal dinner at one of the thirty-one notorious colleges in Cambridge. I probably should mention that this past year I have spent at the University of Cambridge doing my masters. A peculiar little place where my hate-love relationship has slowly but surely grown into an undeniable infatuation. And I do promise to blog all about it in the forthcoming posts.
Anyway, as I was having one of those lazy days in bed with a bucket of crisps and female empowering movies, I decided that after weeks of mourning my previous relationship it was time to get back in the game. The next couple of hours were spent in my usual going-out ritual: applying evening make-up; polishing nails and hair; removing every ounce of hair from my body; and most importantly choosing the perfect outfit. After ending the extensively painful process I was content with its outcome. I was trying to reassure myself that a great night was ahead and who knows when Mr. Right will come my way, right? You do know who I am talking about – the tall handsome prince known for his everlasting chivalry and fine riding skills. Alas, he must have been at another college that night for Mr. A was far from it!
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| Mr. Right |
The formal dinner went as planned: a luscious four course meal; ample amounts of cheap wine; ancient Harry Potter-like dinning facility; and of course plenty of political and religious conversations (a trend you pick up at Cambridge). As the evening was wearing itself out, I was becoming more and more desperate. Slowly but surely I knew it had been a huge mistake to leave the comfort of my own bed where I was safe to relive the nights with my ex (a tip for the broken heart: always have a box of Kleenex on your nightstand as you never know when you will start weeping and toilet paper is a poor substitute). On top of that, my friend had decided to abandon me in the middle of the dinner and reconcile with her ex-boyfriend. A thought that left me even more disheartened. And instead of engaging in a conservation with the cute guy seated next to me, I drowned my sorrows with the cheap wine in front, a mistake I regret bitterly.
I am not sure how the rest of the evening played out, as most of if it still remains a haze. I do remember Mr. A sensing my broken heart and fragile state as he soon joined me for a conversation and later a smoke. I neither found him particularly cute nor attractive but he sure was a sweet talker. He offered to "show" me the rest of the college and seduced me to sit beside him. I remember discussing past relationships and how we were both currently on the rebound. At once Mr. A changed the tone of the conversation to persuading me that life was too short and all that rubbish about 'carpe diem' (lesson to myself: next time someone starts talking about seizing the day, I will make damn sure I am gone before he even utters the word 'diem'). And then, BAM! He started kissing me.
At first I wasn't sure whether it was the vast amount of alcohol or my crappy mood that made the kiss so atrocious. It was like he was trying to deep cleanse my whole face whilst harassing my tonsils with his lizard-long tongue*. His mouth felt like a wet rubbery sponge, with a slight aroma of garlic. And as he tried to kiss me more and more "passionately" his sloppy wet tongue turned to a rough masseur leaving behind a burning sensation. And as his final entree he bit me (!) By bit me I do not mean a slight sensual nibbling but a proper teeth-gripping injury that left a mark on my bottom lip. On top of all that, once I was freed from his torturous embrace he faced me calmly and said simply "Call me." Good job, Mr. A, I sure will not!
* The 'lizard long tongue' expression must be credited to a dear friend of mine, who will remain anonymous unless she agrees to be named.
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