Well. This is news. Last night, at a weird little attic party (not a loft party, dearling, never get invited to those) held by a friend of a friend -- lots of eery-looking, ambrous candles, diaphanous curtains and ancient samovars filled with different-colored teas, strange distressed-wood-panelling everywhere, artsy handmade books lying about, a funny little bar that was a resurrected confessional, where you went in the penitentiary end and received your drink as a penance, I guess -- I drank four whiskey sours out of a vintage glass bud-vase, smeared blue paint on the inside of my arm, ripped the knee of my trousers, punctured my thigh climbing up onto the roof, burned a perfect heart-shaped hole in my diaphanous overblouse with someone else's lit cigarette, got in a brief fist fight with a member of a wedding party because I asked her which prom she was from (I totally destroyed her lilac satin gown!), told some girl that she reminded me of Garth from Wayne's World, and -- AND -- kissed, on the mouth, Lillian's impotent husband Arnaud. Who is perhaps not so impotent around me, but you know, I was very drunk.
There. I said it. I know Lillian is my arch-nemesis, but I regret it, because I'm not interested in Arnaud -- he's so effete -- or at least I wouldn't have been, if he hadn't been Lillian's husband. And oh my. I've never kissed anyone else's HUSBAND before. Boyfriend, oh yes. Fiance, sure. But husbands are a different story. They have a holy bond! It's sanctioned by the church!
Of course, as soon as our lips had parted, and he had removed his long, white, lingering French hand from the base of my head, and I had crushed my disbelieving face into his cream-colored cashmere shoulder, reeling and pleased and regretful, I shored myself up and strode purposefully into the confessional, confessed, drank a shot of bourbon, and drove my tongue deeply down the throat of the bartender for fifteen minutes. He wanted to go back to his place after the party, so I followed him sheepishly at four in the morning, but I wouldn't sleep with him, I just ate a crate of my darling clementines while he painted my toenails, and in the morning I crept out in one of his bathrobes, because my pants were too smoky and awful to wear, and my mouth still tasted like weird, weird, weird Arnaud.
Shit.Posted by anonymousblonde at juillet 25, 2002 05:42 PM