My mother loves to reminisce about my colourful romantic past exploits to my husband, CJ. You’d be forgiven for thinking that she was talking about herself, what with all her ooh-ing and ahh-ing and her incredible memory for detail; the sort of detail that I can never summon, despite the fact that these ridiculous events happened to me. One might even be forgiven for thinking that she was reminiscing vicariously through me – wait – before I delve so far into my own Freudian etiology that I can never return, I’ll stop talking about my mother.
So, there we were, me, my mother, and my husband, bellies fat from dinner, lolling on the couch talking about the good ol’ days when, out of left field, my mother brings up the fact that when I was 18, I went out with the ‘mute rockabilly librarian who worked at Red Rooster’. Okay, let’s stop here a second so I can defend myself.
First – I was only 18. That’s like a mere 8 years from 10 and 10 is very, very young, people.
Second – My mother made me go. I know, I know, but read on, you’ll see.
The mute rockabilly librarian who worked at Red Rooster, who shall remain nameless, mostly because I’ve forgotten his name, decided that despite the fact that we had never spoken to each other, (yes, I worked there too) he was in love with me. Let’s face it, I was 18 and cute and blonde and had made my aunt shorten my Red Rooster uniform just so I didn’t look dowdy as well as incredibly ridiculous, so really, who can blame the boy? He asked me (probably wrote it down on the lid of a chicken’n’chips box, who knows, I can’t recall) to go to a party with him, and I said I’d get back to him, having no intention of going anywhere with the mute rockabilly librarian who worked at Red Rooster. But when I told mum what had happened at work that day (seeing nothing apart from endless boredom punctuated by brief periods of nausea ever happened at Red Rooster), she demanded thusly that I attend the party with said mute rockabilly librarian who worked at Red Rooster. My mother was making me go on a pity date.
Let’s end this sad tale, shall we? Here’s what happened in a proverbial snack box: The mute rockabilly librarian who worked at Red Rooster, along with EVERY other person at the party, was dressed as a rockabilly, and when I asked the mute rockabilly librarian who worked at Red Rooster why he hadn’t told me it was a fancy dress party, he replied, in his first spoken words to me I suppose, that it wasn’t a fancy dress party.
I stayed at the non-fancy-dress, fancy dress party a full and tortourous half hour before I feigned an exotic illness of the female (and therefore unmentionable) variety, and told the mute rockabilly librarian who worked at Red Rooster that I was very sorry, but I had to go home. He walked me to my car and that’s when I received THE STRANGEST KISS KNOWN TO WOMANKIND, EVER. Before I had time to bid the mute rockabilly librarian who worked at Red Rooster goodnight, he’d clamped his open mouth over my lips and sunk his teeth into that sensitive bit below your nose and my chin, and then proceeded to stand impossibly still and breathe Red Rooster breath into my face. This is a true story people. This was how this poor boy kissed. I had no option but to squeak through aching, trapped lips and ask if he would kindly remove his teeth from my face. He did, quite politely, and then stared at me. I stared back. What was I supposed to say? That was nice? I got in my car and I drove away, furious at you know who; mother.
So what happened to the mute rockabilly librarian who worked at Red Rooster? I don’t know actually. He stopped working there after that. I guess he decided he was making enough money just being a librarian. I do sometimes wonder though, if some woman, with more patience and resolve (and a tougher face) than me, taught that poor man how to kiss.