Spillage

The stains on my sheets seemed to emerge once he had left, because they certainly weren’t noticeable while we sat on my bed, looking at the video we had taken with his camera phone. But there they were an hour later, looking like spilled milk in sea of navy blue cotton. There were two of them; one about an inch and a half away from the foot, while the other was directly on the left edge, and had dribbled slightly downward before absorbing enough to stop. Whether they were his fault or mine, I wasn’t sure, but regardless they sat there imposing on the darkness that surrounded them. Upon seeing them, I wanted to tear the cloth away from its hug on the mattress and throw it into my washing machine. The stains would fight a losing battle with Tide and hot water, and the matter they consisted of would be drained into the city’s water supply, obliterated and forgotten. It was when I touched the white translucence that I knew I couldn’t do it. Not yet.

They were completely dry and slightly stiffened the sheet they decorated, flaking slightly when I rubbed them. They weren’t so large, really. The one at the foot of my bed was about the size of my palm, and its sibling was slightly longer than my pinky finger. They weren’t completely consistent, some spots were more opaque than others, and the large one had a line through it where the fabric had creased to protect itself.
I didn’t know what to do about this predicament. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of the stains, but it felt wrong for me to sleep in the same place as them. They were, after all, dirty and still slightly mysterious, because I didn’t know who they belonged to. Opting to sleep on the couch, I grabbed my pillow and thick comforter and curled into my lumpy sofa.
Even with the lights turned off and eyes shut, moon and streetlight filtered through my spotted windows and eyelids and reminded my brain that I wasn’t in the familiarity of my usual sleeping place, and subsequently that the spots on my bedspread had no interruption, no suffering. They laid there in peace; in fancy hotels they would be alarmed by black lights and scoured out by deep cleaners. Their wrinkled bodies would be flattened out and disappear. On my bed they stayed up all night, wondering how long it would take the air of my window fan to dissolve them into the room’s collection of dust. I was jealous of their contentment and ignorance. If they knew that I could get rid of them whenever I wanted, they didn’t give a flying fuck. Their father had abandoned them and their mother had given up on them, why should they care?
I thought about him, if he was indeed the father or not. Maybe they were only mine. They had no telling features, his dark hair or cold blue eyes. Eventually I fell into unconsciousness, dreaming of fluffy gray dandelion monsters.

The next day I awoke, my legs feeling sore from the awkward position of comfort they assumed the night before. When I went to my bedroom to get dressed for the day, the stains still lay sprawled out on sheet, basking in the sunlight from the east side window. How dare they? They ought to be awake and getting ready for school right now. I was tempted to prod them, but I remembered how much I hate being woken up, so instead I marched into the living room in nothing but my bra and panties, and retrieved my comforter. I threw it over them, hoping the heat would suffocate them out and into the day.
“There,” I said loudly, “just stay on my bed then!”
I finished getting dressed for work, ignoring any muffled protests.

The day proceeded without event, save for my lunch break when I went to meet up with their father again. He was supposed to show up at 1:15, but it was 1:20 and he was nowhere in sight. I ordered a coffee and sipped it slowly, savoring the bitter warmth. I repeatedly checked my watch, each minute passing slowly. At 1:33 I tried to call his cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail. Maybe he’s just too tired, I considered. Last night was pretty intense. More time crawled by and my coffee shrank in its mug. I thought I felt a vibration in my purse at my feet, and bent down quickly to answer my phone. The table bumped against my arm and the meager amount of liquid in my cup spilled across the plate in front of me, a little splashing onto the white sleeve of my blouse.
“Oh fuck!” I dipped my napkin in the glass of water in front of me, to wipe my shirt with. The caramel colored spot weakened and I eventually forgot about it. The vibration I had felt at my feet was just a figment of my imagination, because when I checked my phone, it only read the time, 1:47. I returned to work without any word from him.
I came home tired from work and irritated that he hadn’t bothered to call or text me back. Why was it so hard to just tell me why he couldn’t show up? I threw my keys and purse onto my couch and retreated back to my room, where the stains lay dormant under the comforter, no longer irked by the presence of morning sun. I yanked the cover off, and inspected them. They hadn’t grown an inch since the day before, nor got smaller. When I looked at them, they reminded me of him, their pale faces surrounded by darkness, speckled with blue in their imperfections. They really were his stains.
Trying to ignore his clingy offspring, I turned on the TV and watched Jeopardy for its last ten minutes.
“What is a toy dog?” a plump woman asked in response to a picture of a small fluffy dog on the screen. The category was some semi-clever name for dog breeds.
“It’s a Pomeranian, you buttface!” I yelled at the woman.
“I’m sorry, the correct answer was Pomeranian,” Alex Trebek apologized. The woman looked dejected as her monetary total lowered by 600 dollars. As the show went on, the plump woman gained some more, lost some more, and eventually came in third place. Her face bothered me when she lost, it was obvious this was her one chance for her fifteen minutes of fame, and she hadn’t even gotten that far. The look she gave the winner made me think of the dog she couldn’t name; it was bitter and snarky and ready to nip. What a freak, I thought, yawning.
I began peeling my clothes off to go to bed, but stopped and realized that the stains were still there. I debated whether or not to sleep on the couch again, remembering the way my legs hurt that morning, remembering that he hadn’t met me for lunch like he said he would. I looked at them once more. It was really silly that I couldn’t just pluck off the sheet and get rid of this nonsense. It was my apartment, my bed, my sheets, my right to sleep where I needed to. But at that point I was too tired to deal with them, I’d take care of them in the morning. I finished taking off my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and climbed into bed with the stains near my feet.
It was Saturday, and I didn’t wake up until after noon. I put on grey sweatpants and a t-shirt, pocketing my cell phone in case he called to apologize for not showing up on Friday. I settled on corn flakes for lunch, chewing each crusty tidbit longer than necessary until they congealed into a mush in my mouth, which I swallowed in one gulp. This prevented any milk spillage onto my table, which existed without a tablecloth. After eating, I proceeded with the day’s routine chores: laundry, bills, cleaning the bathroom, which had become encased in a thin film of various colored slimes since I had moved in two months ago.
My stains spent the Saturday listening in on the music pumping through my sound system as I worked on cleaning. They lounged and asked me to please turn on Jeopardy, that they liked the music that played while contestants wrote in their wagers better than what I was listening to, and that at least it was kind of educational. Instead I turned up the speakers which blared the music that was playing during their conception. Shouldn’t they like that? Their father certainly did.
“He can go fuck himself,” I muttered as I rubbed a gloved hand over the light brown ring a shampoo bottle had left in my shower.
By the time I was done cleaning the bathroom, they were sound asleep again, as if daytime had never even happened. The sun was already setting. After a day of cleaning the last thing I wanted to do was make a mess by cooking, so I ordered vegetable chow mein from the Chinese place a few blocks away and ate it in the silence of my spotless living room. I had received no calls during the day, no interruptions, no apologies, no acknowledgment. After eating, I went to bed, leaving the remainder of my dinner on the coffee table.
My stains didn’t stir when I crawled under the covers to join them. They didn’t whisper goodnight or ask where daddy had been for the past few days. The biggest one didn’t even try to leave when I snuggled my head next to his. He didn’t disappear when a tear dripped onto his face.
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The problem with ugly guys is...sometimes everything.

Jake was the kind of guy who doesn’t make eye contact. I don’t know why I thought making out with him would ever be a good idea, but it was too late for that; I was already wiping someone’s spit from the corners of my mouth. For the first time, he looked me straight on, face to face, and said:
“I never thought I’d meet my soul mate tonight.”
“Mm,” I said, smiling politely and shifting my gaze down into my lap where our fingers still lay, entwined. I looked out the window as a rusting yellow snow plow cleared the street of gray slush.
“I’m serious,” I heard him say, his high voice slightly cracking.
How do you tell an ugly guy that he’s ugly and not your soul mate?

“You’re too nice,” I said. I unlocked my fingers from his and ran my hand through the dark buzz cut on his head. The bristly hairs combed across my clammy palm. It reminded me of the time I rode a horse in the summer when I was nine.
“You’re too nice, Pony.”
He actually called me Pony. Ugly. Pony. Two strikes, you’re out.
“I have to pee,” I said.
I didn’t have to pee, but I headed to the bathroom anyway, where the dim light illuminated my face as I looked in the mirror. I ran my fingers through my own hair, and I didn’t feel like any kind of animal. It felt like normal hair. Why did his feel like he belonged in a barn? He dared to call me Pony? I pulled on my eyelashes, stretching my eyelids and pulling out single mascara drowned hairs. Rolling my thumb and forefinger together, little balls of black greasy dirt collected, and I flicked them onto the floor. His bathroom needed a little decoration; the only noticeable element against the stark white walls was the dust that had collected on the top of the toilet tank. I realized it had been a moment since I had left and I hadn’t peed yet. I turned on the tap and quietly let a pool of water collect in my palm, then poured it slowly into the toilet. Flushed, stood there for the appropriate amount of time it would take one to pull their pants up, and continued.
I spent an expert amount of time washing my hands; somehow they smelled like the cigarettes he smoked on a much too regular basis. I used my fingertips to scrub the white lather of soap into my fingerprints and the crevices on my hand, getting rid of the reeking tobacco smell as well as any mascara still stuck to my skin. It hit me that I needed to go back out there in order to get out the door. How do you ditch an ugly guy without becoming a heartbreaker?
He was looking very deeply into the carpet when I pulled myself out of the bathroom, but once he noticed I was back, a grin spread across his face. When I looked at his uneven teeth a sudden awareness flooded through me that my tongue had been inside that mouth. The mouth that called me Pony and told me that I was its soul mate. The mouth that emanated high pitched bullshit, the smoke of Newports, and its own revolting saliva to mix with my own. It hit me that they can do DNA testing with samples of spit, that my DNA clung to his when I wiped it away from my mouth and onto my jeans.
He reached out to me, like a child with separation anxiety, as I lingered as long as possible near an end table whose only content was a pair of wind-up chattering teeth. I picked up the teeth, winding the key as slowly as possible, and set them back on the table. The moment they hit the wood they made an awful buzzing sound which stopped when he too suddenly put his hand on top of them. His appearance startled me, so I backed up slightly, bumping the wall.
“What’s wrong with you?” he smiled again.
What’s wrong with me? You smoke goddamn Newports. I thought.
“Nothing.”
“You sure?”
“I feel kind of sick.”
“I have Advil,” he said. “Or Pepto-Bismol.”
“No,” I said.
“Woman troubles?” he sighed.
I was honestly astonished that he not only knew what woman troubles were, but that he had basically given me a free ticket out of this shitty apartment where he lived with his mouth.
“Yes,” I sighed in return, “it’s just so heavy this month. I don’t know how I haven’t died of blood loss.”
He picked up the chattering teeth to wind them up again. They buzzed on the end table.
“And you know, sometimes you just can’t cork it up well enough,” I said over the sound of the teeth, and shrugged passively.
He looked at the clock ticking on the opposite wall and I walked over to the couch to retrieve my coat. The corners were tucked into the cushions from the coat being sat on.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m not feeling well,” I said.
“But you’re leaving already?”
“Well, I mean, I wouldn’t be much fun.”
“I disagree,” he smirked, avoiding my eyes.
“Actually,” I improvised, “can I bum a cigarette?”
“We can’t smoke in here,” he said, grabbing his pack off the arm of the couch.
“Oh! Well, that’s fine.”
We walked out onto his porch, and he put his arm around me to shield me from the January air. His coat smelled like three day old Taco Bell. He handed me a cigarette and I pressed it delicately between my lips, pulling out my own lighter to set it on fire. The smoke curled attractively in front of my face, but there still wasn’t enough distance between my head and his. I coughed from the taste--it reminded me of the mouth that was much too close to mine. The mouth like burnt coffee and rubber that’s lost all of its elasticity. The feeling of drinking milk while you still have morning breath. I needed to clean my mouth, but first I needed to stub out the abomination of a cigarette on his face to give future women something pleasant to look at.
He leaned his head onto mine and the bristles of his hair touched my bare skin again, this time on my cheek. I was literally beginning to feel ill at that point; the taste of his concentrated cigarettes and the feel of his buzz cut were almost too much to handle in combination with the presence of his face. How did I not throw up with his tongue in me?
“Excuse me,” I said, running down to the bushes in the front yard and pretending to vomit.
“Are you alright?” he called.
“No.”
“No?”
“No!”
“Do you need some Pepto-Bismol?”
“I…I don’t think so,” I said, straightening up and wiping my mouth. The cigarette lay limp and wet in the snow at my feet.
“I’m just gonna, you know, head out.” I pointed to my car.
“Well,” he sounded disappointed, “call me tomorrow then?”
“Actually,” I said, heading for the driver’s side door, “I think I’m pregnant.”
“What?”
“Yeah, preggo,” I shrugged.
“You shouldn’t smoke when you’re pregnant.”
“Really? Huh. Well thanks for the tip.” My foot was halfway in the car.
“Wait! Pony!” he yelled, coming toward me, “Whose do you think it is.”
“My friend Tim,” I replied, shuddering again at the word Pony. “I think he’s my soul mate.”
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Your kiss? Your kiss is curing my hysteria

Here's a shameless plug for The Dollyrots. They're an indie bubblegum punk band originally from Florida. They've got an explicit kiss song, called Hysteria. Check them out; click play on the widget below to listen to Hysteria...and anything else, really. They rock:




Check out the lyrics of 'Hysteria' below:



You think it's funny
To keep me waiting
But I'm not laughing its so wrong [so wrong]
It's got me feeling
Under the weather
But you can cure me won't take too long [too long]

I need some of your
Time need some of the
Only thing that makes me come

I like it when you touch me touch me
You keep me waiting so long [so long]
I like it when you touch me touch me
Your kiss your kiss is curing my hysteria huh
Uh huh

And you're my favorite
When I cant take it
So come on over and hold on [hold on]
You kissy face me
Can't take your teasing
And now you're dragging me along [along]

I need some of your
Time need some of the
Only thing that makes me come

I like it when you touch me touch me
You keep me waiting so long so long
I like it when you touch me touch me
Your kiss your kiss is curing my hysteria huh

Touch me touch me
So long so long
Touch me touch me
So long so long

I need some of the
Only thing
The only thing
The only thing that makes me come

I like it when you touch me touch me
You keep me waiting so long so long
I like it when you touch me touch me
You keep me waiting so long so long
I like it when you touch me touch me
Your kiss your kiss is curing my hysteria huh

Touch me touch me
So long so long
Touch me touch me
So long so long
Touch me touch me
So long so wrong
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And no, I never met a...

During a visit to my publishing class, Michael Silverblatt asked us, as an assignment, to write about a book that had a profound influence on us in a way. While scanning through my internal database of titles, one in particular kept popping up--Better Than Running at Night, by Hillary Frank.


By no means is this book a great work of literature, or even popular by current standards; I just happened upon it during a walk through the library when I was in about 7th or 8th grade. The characters are fairly predictable, as is the art school environment in which they exist. However, this was apparently exactly the type of story I was seeking at that point in my life.

The story traces the first year at college for Ellie Yelinsky, who arrives as a freshman at the New England College of Art and Design having just barely broken out of her angst-ridden high school shell. It begins with her meeting of another character, Nate Finerman, who is blatantly foreshadowed by appearing in devil getup a costume party.

This is the point at which Ms.13-year-old Explicit Kisses fell head over heels in love with her first [and certainly not last] misogynist.

"My name is Nate. Finerman. As in, 'you never met a...'" he introduces himself after a hot teenage makeout session.

Swoon.

The rest of the novel deals with Ellie and Nate's relationship [or lack thereof] drama after he takes her virginity and moves onto fuck a bunch of other girls on campus. Meanwhile, Ellie finds out about the lack of meaning in her melodramatic art, befriends a token gay fashion design major and a token art school pothead, and comes to terms with the fact that Nate is a manwhore and she shouldn't have been so hung up on him.

While she's busy doing all of this, I'm still concentrating on Nate's cheesy pick-up line and dark curly hair. Obviously, this seemed like a completely believable way for college and self-actualization to play out in real life. Except in my world, I would be the one to tame my own Finerman. He'd keep his sexy, domineering qualities, but I'd be his one and only.

Unfortunately, as is the case of fiction, this is not what happened. Instead, my college experience consisted of me as a depressed hermit for the first several weeks until I somehow stumbled upon a sweet boy who legitimately wanted to date me. This was not running into the devil at a costume party. This was not my conquest of unbridled passion. He was not my Nate Finerman, and thus my interest dwindled fast. I came to no realizations about my art, I did not befriend a token gay, my parents were not former hippies who accepted experimentation. This was not the life that Hillary Frank had suggested it would be. I felt cheated.

I have thus realized that this novel is one of the reasons I believe in truth, and why as an aspiring writer, I am drawn toward exploration of the real self rather than created characters. Anyone can make the argument that the ability to escape the boundaries of the typical is what makes writing interesting. So I'm a writer attracted to douchebags, so what? So are lots of women. Why don't I get beyond that, talk about something positive and inspiring, to be a good role model?

Hmm...no.

I am interested in humans. I am interested in myself. I am interested in my flaws. I'm interested in why we spend so much time romanticizing the experiences that we have with shitty people. I'm interested in why I'd much rather sleep with Gaston from Beauty and the Beast rather than the redeemed prince. Better Than Running at Night brought to my attention the opposite of what it was trying to get across. Not everyone is looking for fulfillment, redemption, safety, security etc. Sometimes we just wanna fuck around while we still can. Sometimes we just want a Finerman, and to know that his douchebaggery is there, but more importantly, that it's real. That attainment of reality in writing is my personal form of happiness.

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Words of a Blowjob Queen

Give it to me, don't give it away
Don't think about what the others say
My skin's getting clear, my hair's so bright
All you do is fuck me every day and night

You're my secret beauty routine
Na, na, na, na, what my body has seen
I am lookin' good and I'm feeling nice
Baby you're the best magazine advice

Gimme your hot white cum
Gimme your hot white cum
Gimme your hot white cum
Gimme your hot white cum

I'm gonna pull you back down between the sheets
Everything is fresher when the day is sweet
In the morning light when you're already on the phone

Face it, one of these days
Without you I'm just another Dorian Gray
It's the fountain of youth
It's the meaning of life
So hot, so sweet, so wet my appetite

Gimme your hot white cum
Gimme your hot white cum
Gimme your hot white cum
Gimme your hot white cum

Face it, one of these days
Without you I'm just another Dorian Gray
It's the fountain of youth
It's the meaning of life
Baby you're the best magazine advice

Gimme your hot white cum
Gimme your hot white cum
Gimme your hot white cum
Gimme your hot white cum
Gimme your hot white cum
Gimme your hot white cum
Gimme your hot white cum
Gimme your hot white cum
Your hot white cum

-Liz Phair, Hot White Cum
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What is/are 'Explicit Kisses'?

In that this is the first post I'm adding to the Explicit Kisses blog, I figured I wouldn't start out with a story or musing like the rest of the posts will be from this point on. Instead, I'd like to explain the purpose of this blog. ...But I suppose I need a story to preface that, don't I?


A large portion of my childhood was dedicated to waiting for the magic that would await me in the years after puberty. I spent too long looking forward to my first kiss, my first boyfriend the loss of my virginity, and thanks to Disney's sugarcoated influence, my knight in shining armor. After fourteen years of patience, I got my first real kiss [even if it was on the cheek] in the greasy green and brown booth at a Subway near my school. The guy was not only not actually interested in me in the least, but he was also distinctly unattractive, and last but not least, had a girlfriend. Despite all of these details that would make such a specimen unappealing, my self esteem was just low enough to make this kid the current love of my life. I obsessed over him, every unrequited love song I listened to was obviously about my relationship [or lack thereof] with him. Eventually I got over him, moved on like any girl in their right mind would do. What I never got over was the lack of actual romance in the situation. You can make anything sound sexy if you like a person enough, or if they're attractive enough. In truth, however, the experience itself isn't anything more than two pimpled high schoolers getting freaky in a Subway. Disgusting.

Explicit Kisses is intended to be the antithesis to pulp romance novels; the ones with pink covers and Fabio nearly fucking some random glamour model dressed like a pirate. It's an objective look at innocent kisses, kinky sex, the time you gave your boyfriend a handjob on the ferris wheel with someone else's gum stuck to the metal restraint in front of you. In this blog you'll find works of both fiction and creative nonfiction, so if you know me personally and find our story among them, take this into account; if I gave you my heart for any moment in time, in return I took your face, the way you speak, your mannerisms, your body, your clothing, and above all else, the time you farted while I was giving you head.

Don't worry, I won't use your real name. Your secret is safe with me. Kind of.

For the time being, I plan on all posts being in first person [that is, from the 'I' vantage point]. This does not necessarily make every piece nonfiction. As stated before, some entries will be fiction, others nonfiction, and some a hybrid of the two.

Also, I ask that you please do not make the assumption that I am bitter toward the concept of love or romance. I am simply attempting to reveal physical/sexual experiences in a more tongue-in-cheek, objective way through this blog. Just because I'm sitting at my laptop wiping french fry grease on my pants as I write these entries does not mean that I am incapable of feeling or that I can't get a boyfriend.



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