Once upon a time, I sat behind a couple during a high school wrestling meet. A boy and a girl. The match was especially close and tense. The boy seemed very invested in seeing his wrestler win. His body language said as much. He clutched at the girl. He hunched over and clenched his fists. He leaned in. He squinted. The girl did not seem to care one way or another about the wrestlers.
When the boy's wrestler pinned the loser, the crowd exploded in celebration, and the boy too. He leapt up and pumped his fists. He shouted,
Aaoooaaaaooo!!! Then he grabbed the girl and gave her not a celebratory squeeze, not a kiss and a mess of tears, not happy gurgling noises - no, he turned to her and
tried to eat her face.
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| "I'm so happy my friend won his wrestling match!" |
I was so impressed with their face sucking, salivating, dry humping, public works plumbing theatrics that sixteen years later I still remember the clothes they were wearing vividly. (Sweatsuits.) Also vivid is the memory of my confusion: why is the appropriate reaction to seeing your team win frantic making out?
But now that I've had a good few weeks - a good few months - and I'm seeing my efforts to remake my life come to fruition, and I'm feeling good, and I'm feeling triumphant - all I want to do is make out! Team Me is fucking winning! I feel so horny for life! Come here and let me eat your face!
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| Oh baby! |
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