Back in grade 11, I had my first serious boyfriend ever, and we were still in the let’s-give-each-other-smouldering-postpubescent-stares-that-are-actually-very-awkward stage, but not yet in the dribbling-tongue-kissing-in-the-hallway-stage. I knew, however, that Valentine’s Day would be The Day. Finally, I would get my kiss.
So the boy in question drove up in his chariot—his dad’s maroon Chevy station wagon—and we retreated to our Palace of Love-Sex (my parents’ slightly foetid basement.) We ambled down the stairs and turned on City TV, occasionally turning our smouldering, pimply countenances to each other and giving crazy eye sex. All systems go. He gave me my Valentine’s present: a “bouquet” of very delicious looking Felix and Norton (I think that’s the company) cookies. “Oh, chocolate macadamia, so sexy!” I cooed and promptly ate seven.
We then proceeded to watch Ed the Sock’s Night Party. We leaned closer to each other, just imperceptibly. The faux leather couches creaked. It was looking to be a sexy time. Our shared looks got longer, and, I believed, palpably more moist.
He leaned in, lankily—I think he was about six foot seven—and I relinquished myself. I expected faint scruff and a gentle, probing tongue. I waited to inhale his manly scent. What I got instead was a snootful of failed Old Spice deodorant, the resultant body odour, an oily cheek against my own, and a tongue that—how do I put this—rolled rapidly around my mouth in concentric circles, like the propeller of an airplane.
“Oh, so this is what sex is,” I thought to myself, as spit flew and soared from our mouths around the room. I gamely continued on, thinking things would get better. I was nothing if a team player in those days.
After about half an hour, though, things took a sudden turn. I began to feel distinctly unwell. Something was wrong. I wondered why and wherefore. “Do aroused and sexy people always feel like they’re going to expel their own intestines?” I asked myself.
Suddenly, my colon literally felt like it was about to explode—you know what I’m talking about. Horrifed, I leapt from the couch and raced up the stairs, praying—please God please God don’t let me shit myself just as I was about to get some dry humping.
Lo and behold, it was not the extreme hotness of the occasion that turned my stomach, nor was it my beau’s terminal case of Helicopter Tongue—it was those goddamn Valentine’s cookies. The rich, synthetic, doughy little bastards had worked their way through my digestive system faster than I could say “stop licking my eyes!”
As fate would have it, we broke up a week later. It was mutual—I wanted to have a dry face once in awhile, and he wanted someone with a bigger mouth. Whatever that means. Something happened that night, though—I have rarely celebrated Valentine’s Day since. It just doesn’t feel right.
The days of saliva-laden, synthetically awkward loving are over for Alison Lang, as she has matured into a graceful, hipster lady full of grown-up love. Right Lang?
All final editorial decisions are made by the Editor(s) in Chief and/or the Managing Editor. Authors should not be ed, targeted, or harassed under any circumstances. If you have any grievances with this article, please direct your comments to [email protected].