TIME: Sometime in the midnight hour, August 27, 2005
MOOD: Somewhere between sleepy and wide-awake due to lingering jet lag and plenty of unexpected naps.
MUSIC: Craig David's The Story Goes
READ: Just finished Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl by Tracy Quan. On page six of Snobs by Julian Fellowes. My favorite line so far: "To the English, skin is, as a rule, the compliment of last resort, to be employed when there is nothing else to praise."
EATS: White Chocolate Maltesers
Sometimes I surprise myself with what I choose to blog about; I've even been tempted a few times to quickly delete the post and hope no one notices. What surprises others is that there still are a LOT of stories I'm not brave or honest enough to write down (I probably would only if I ever decided to start writing reality-based fiction or -- OK -- maybe even erotica). But the best part of putting it all out there is that it's encouraged folks to reveal to me their own secrets -- things I'm sure they never thought they'd have enough courage to tell me (or even anyone else at all).
I was up late last night as usual, just blog-surfing. I always have my AOL and Yahoo instant messenger thingies on when I'm online, but often it tends to be pretty quiet once the midnight hour hits. So I was pleasantly surprised to get a couple of pings, almost simultaneously in fact -- one from D (ex-boyfriend/forever friend) and C (my soul sistah).
My conversation with D ventured off to memories of hickeys, oddly enough. He confessed he liked giving them and that he seemed to remember I liked receiving them. Well -- not exactly, I clarified. I think when they're placed in a conspicuous location they're just obnoxious; that way they're basically the physical equivalent of crass juvenile bragging. And embarrassing as hell to boot.
I remember my first boyfriend gave me one on the back of my neck when we first started dating and didn't let me know about it. The next day in school my classmate Rica, who sat behind me, saw the purple bruise as my long hair swept forward when I leaned over to read -- and then pointed it out to me with glee. You've got to realize I was considered a "good girl" then; I did summer missionary work and was one of a small group in high school bestowed by the school nuns with a wooden cross to wear around my neck. A mark of sexual passion, needless to say, didn't particularly blend with such a solemn mark of Catholic piety. Rica's never forgotten the incident, and still ribs me about it from time to time when I see her.
So going back to last night: I said I occasionally prefer a small one imprinted in a discreet, well-placed spot. Just something to peek at from time to time, to feel that warm, glowing flush that accompanies a rush of such vivid replay of recent memories. It's something private, one that only two people (who had something to do with it) know about. Now how sexy is that? Very sexy indeed, D replied, who then proceeded to disclose some other very salacious stories (that had nothing to do with me, by the way).
At that point C ping'd to say hello. Not too long ago, we revealed to each other a list of men we'd dated, together with how long we'd been with each one. From that information we came up with statistics clearly illustrating how many relationships we had that were fairly long-term Vs short-term; mine didn't look too good, especially when compared to hers. Well, recently during Mass (!) she realized there were several men she had completely forgotten about, thus skewing percentages to her advantage.
C: Aw c'mon, I'm sure you forgot some guys too, and left them off your list.
Me: Nope, my list was complete. And pretty much in order of appearance too.
C: No really -- how can you NOT forget?
Me: Hey, it's not like my numbers are deeper into the double-digits or something.
C: Well, mine too -- but I still forgot some names anyway.
Me: Look. I remember all my shoes, and they only go ON my feet.
C: LOL
Me: And I have to say I have way more shoes than boys!
So there: last night I realized my ex-boyfriend, who's almost pushing 50 (he was an older-man type of boyfriend, OK?), is still proud of the handiwork he started to master as a teenager. Nothing wrong with that at all, although it is a bit strange to visualize a man of his...um...maturity level focused on making the perfect little love bite. And I also discovered my friend was sluttier than I'd suspected (just KIDDING!) -- and I bet it won't be too long before we realize her stats are more pathetic than mine.
I can't wait for another busy late night IM session with friends -- especially if my girlfriend R, whose list of men is not too far from the triple-digit range, ever logs on. Just imagine the stories she can tell. If she can remember the names involved, that is.
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