A Kiss Is Like ... Emotional
Part Eight
“You kissed me first!” the older one said.
“Yeah, but you’re the one bitching about how you didn’t like it.”
“That was to prove I can kiss.”
“Riiiiiiight . . .”
“What the hell does that mean?” the older said.
“Well, I wouldn’t call that a kiss. More like checking someone for a pulse with your lips.”
“I’ve never had a single complaint about the way I kiss.”
“Probably because they’re all too shocked by your lack of finesse to speak. Ow! Don’t hit me!”
“Well, stop saying shit like that.”
“My mother taught me to always tell the truth.” the younger one said.
“You just think it was a bad kiss because you didn’t have time to respond.”
“Well, isn’t that typically the point of a kiss, Mr. Fickle?”
“So . . . why didn’t you respond?”
“There was nothing to respond to. Ow! Stop hitting!”
“Sorry. My hand’s possessed.”
“Oh, shut up, you closet queer.”
“If I’m a closet queer what the hell does that make you?”
“A man open to new sexual experiences.”
“Man? Ha. Don’t make me laugh, kid.”
“I am not a kid! I’m nineteen, thank you very much, Father Time.”
“You stupid little—don’t do that. God dammit, I said don’t do that.”
“Then let go!”
“Come on. Seriously, knock it off.” the older one said. “This isn’t funny.”
“But it’s exciting and kinky, right?”
“You’re a fucking asshole.”
“Well, I could be for you, baby.”
“Don’t bat your eyelashes at me, you immature little—FUCK!”
“I win every time. Don’t forget that.”
…
“Are we back in this position again, already?”
“Yeah, well at least your body managed to maintain it’s dignity.”
“You were giving me a fucking handjob!”
“Kneejob.”
“I hate you.”
“Yeah, yeah. So you ready to try that kiss thing again?”
“Would you lay off the fucking kiss thing?”
“Yeah, but you’re the one bitching about how you didn’t like it.”
“That was to prove I can kiss.”
“Riiiiiiight . . .”
“What the hell does that mean?” the older said.
“Well, I wouldn’t call that a kiss. More like checking someone for a pulse with your lips.”
“I’ve never had a single complaint about the way I kiss.”
“Probably because they’re all too shocked by your lack of finesse to speak. Ow! Don’t hit me!”
“Well, stop saying shit like that.”
“My mother taught me to always tell the truth.” the younger one said.
“You just think it was a bad kiss because you didn’t have time to respond.”
“Well, isn’t that typically the point of a kiss, Mr. Fickle?”
“So . . . why didn’t you respond?”
“There was nothing to respond to. Ow! Stop hitting!”
“Sorry. My hand’s possessed.”
“Oh, shut up, you closet queer.”
“If I’m a closet queer what the hell does that make you?”
“A man open to new sexual experiences.”
“Man? Ha. Don’t make me laugh, kid.”
“I am not a kid! I’m nineteen, thank you very much, Father Time.”
“You stupid little—don’t do that. God dammit, I said don’t do that.”
“Then let go!”
“Come on. Seriously, knock it off.” the older one said. “This isn’t funny.”
“But it’s exciting and kinky, right?”
“You’re a fucking asshole.”
“Well, I could be for you, baby.”
“Don’t bat your eyelashes at me, you immature little—FUCK!”
“I win every time. Don’t forget that.”
…
“Are we back in this position again, already?”
“Yeah, well at least your body managed to maintain it’s dignity.”
“You were giving me a fucking handjob!”
“Kneejob.”
“I hate you.”
“Yeah, yeah. So you ready to try that kiss thing again?”
“Would you lay off the fucking kiss thing?”