February 20, 2006
There's Something About Brian

First dates are nerve-wracking enough, but I'm late. And still unshaved.

He is supposed to arrive in under fifteen minutes, so I race to the bathroom, lather up, and start ripping my razor down my face.

Right cheek. Left cheek. Right neck. Left neck. Chin. Lip - shit.

A cut. A gash, rather, and then a gush. Blood everywhere.

Son of a bitch.

I grab a Kleenex and press down, but nothing is stopping this one.

Blood, another tissue, more blood. The clock is ticking. A knock.

Damnit.

I open the door, shirtless, a crimson tissue mashed to my face. An explanation, a laugh. We sit on the couch. Patient. What a saint.

Tissue. Tissue. Styptic pencil. Tissue. Styptic pencil.

Jesus, when did I become a bleeder?

Tissue - and - yes.

Finally, the bloodletting stops. But I'm left with a scab. A fresh, thick, black, erupting, dime-sized scab on my upper lip.

Hot.

Forty-five minutes have passed. Our dinner reservations long lost, we barely manage a quickie at the diner and make our showtime.

The movie? One of the gay features at the film festival. Sure, no one here I know. I slouch in my chair, hand to my face. Lights. LIGHTS!

Finally, the movie starts. It's ... all right. Not worth the potential public humiliation.

The credits roll, we dash for the exits. He takes me home.

A kiss. Then, a make-out. How kind of him to make the hideous boy with the Neville-sized blemish feel pretty.

This is nice.

The kiss breaks, we pull back. I smile. This date didn't suck! I survived!

I open my eyes.

His face is wearing my scab.

posted by Brian @ 11:46 PM on 02.20.06
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