Vomit Kisses

I wanted to barf when I saw you all up on you-know-who with the bluish lips, covering your smile with the back of your hand because the only person you ever let see your teeth was me, and you almost looked happy, but how could anyone be happy for reals after macking with lips that were at least three degrees below 98.6, which, borders on hypothermic, a quality most undesirable in a lover, unless you fancy the Luke-cold caress of the dead, which you don’t or at least didn’t before your rendezvous with you-know-who, which leads me to believe the happiness you projected with this human of suboptimal temperatures was not true happiness, since, in comparison to my lips and the way I projected heat like a hot rock in the iguana cage at the zoo while lying beside you, and, on occasion, on top of you, but, mostly beside you, made me think that it wasn’t fair to smile the way you smiled while in front of our favorite haunt so soon after you-know-what, but what I’m really trying to say is that sometimes you remind me of a person that forgets about the feelings of others, and by others I mean me, and by sometimes I mean that time when you mashed lips in front of our favorite haunt with total disregard of how I might feel if I saw you, which I did, sharing spit and happiness with someone other than myself, so the least you could do next time is pretend to swallow your joy as if it were vomit, like that time in the movie theater that involved shellfish on a discounted sushi roll that you knew didn’t taste right but ate it anyways because ‘a little wonky shellfish never hurt no one,’ and when you rose from that foldable theater seat during the dramatic crescendo of the movie, you knew it was more than just vomit that needed an exit, so you waddled posthaste with your hands pressed to your lips like a ‘say no evil monkey,’ and hurled yourself upon the toilet just in time to accommodate the liquid pressure pounding on your backdoor, but not before you curled over and waterfalled macerated scallops and miso soup onto your new shoes, and, although you could feel the wet warmth working its way through your socks, you smiled because you were so happy to get the poison out but covered your teeth even though you were alone, picturing seaweed bundled around a front tooth like a coat ready to weather the winter of your mouth, or at least that’s what you told me, and later that night when we fucked on your futon, I didn’t mind that you hadn’t used a mint or brushed away the barf from your breath because I wanted every fucking filthy beautiful last part of you, not just the brushed-teeth-before-bed or pre-barf part, I wanted it all, so when I saw you after the big you-know-what with you-know-who, is it really so wrong that I damn near stewed like corn beef in your grandmother’s crockpot on St. Paddy’s Day: you with your hand masking your mouth while you smiled for fear that you-know-who might lose their woody if they saw a little green between the jumble of white dominoes lining your gums, and do you really believe that anyone could ever appreciate your vomit kisses the way I did and still do, or throb for your knobby knees, or stiffen by the sight of your elbows, scarred from years of roller derby and lack of pads, or kiss your wild armpits, or tongue-glide up your fuzzy thighs to your hairy ass because—fuck shaving, right?—and god bless your powerful ankles and those underdeveloped earlobes that stopped growing with the rest of your body during your 5th grade growth spirt, and can we just forget about you-know-what and I’ll forget about you-know-who, and we can go on together so you can laugh again openmouthed and carefree, because I won’t think twice before macking with your barf-breath and seaweed coated teeth, and if that ain’t love—but what the fuck do I know, kid, maybe you are better off with ol’ blue lips and I’ll go on with ol’ blue balls, but do me a favor and find a new haunt to express your public displays of affection, because I’m still stuck on this stool in the half-night, creep-watching you from jukebox shadows, thinking about how much happier I’d be if the lips mashed with yours were mine and you no longer had to cover your teeth when you smiled.

Film “Dirty Dancing” (1987) starring Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey