xX... here's another one! Enjoy! Review!!! ...xX
"When you kiss," I remember him saying, "Which way does the bloke turn his head?"
I remember him asking this. I remember him studying his face in the mirror. I remember me applying acne cream.
I hate acne cream.
I hate how it's cold and how it's crusty and how you can never get comfortable at night when you have it one and I hate how it smells and how it makes your face feel weird and I hate how it gets all over your fingers when you apply it and how it stains your towels and how, it always seems, you're the only person in the world who needs it.
We were 12.
"The bloke always tilts right," I say. Matter-of-factly.
In reality, I have no fucking clue which way a guy tilts his head when kissing but, when dealing with my best friend, it's always better to have an answer. Pause in a single moment of question and prepare to be pecked apart. Let me tell you.
"Right. Thanks," he says, NOT putting on acne cream.
He brushes. He spits. He rinses.
I try, without my luck, to get some acne cream out of my hair.
We were 13.
I couldn't believe it.
"I forgot, I went to the left! it was a bloody disaster!" he raves, brushing his teeth, "I shoulda listened to you mate- you're ALWAYS right!"
I'm still putting on acne cream.
My face is still cratered.
It's in my eyebrows. What a strange feeling.
"And then, I tried to grab her tit- like, you know, for laughs. And she hit me!"
"Sorry mate," I say, not listening. Totally absorbed in the dabbing of cream onto pizza'd face.
"I'm a bloody failure..." He groans and, perfect face and all, retires to the dorm.
We were 14.
Two.
Two zits.
Two large ugly resourceful zits.
I throw caution to the wind and squeeze the tube hard, the white cream comes out in spurts.
There are bad days. And there are days in which you contemplate suicide multiple times. That day was the latter.
He walks in.
"You ok?"
I look at him. I look at my white fingers.
"No."
If I had clean hands, I would wipe my eyes but I can't. I can't because it will sting if I do and, instead, I'm stuck with that awful feeling when there are tears flooding your eyes. It's just plain uncomfortable.
"Whassa matter?" He asks, trying to be interested. Well, it's considerate of him. But he's combing through his hair. It's just been cut, you see.
"I-" I dab angrily at zit numero uno, on my chin.
He takes out his razor.
14 and shaving.
There are many things unfair in this world. That is one of them.
"Mmm?" He asks, lips pursued, chin up, shaving his neck.
"Never mind," I say and gob the last bit onto my nose.
I wipe the residue angrily on my towel. Not really caring that, in the morning, a large yellow splotch will have appeared.
I brush my teeth.
There is silence.
He washes his razor and splashes water on his craterless face.
"Where you saying some'in?" he asks stupidly.
I pause.
I sigh.
I-
"No. I didn't so nothing."
We were 15.
"Then she took off her shirt and let me touch her tits!" He is happy, "Fuck man!" He doesn't really know WHY he says, but he thinks it makes him cool, "I even tilted left again! I'll never get it right!"
"Try try try" I say, not really listening. I've got problems of my own, you know.
"Anyway she said she loves the stubble!"
He's working on the 'stubble' look. Limey bastard.
I'm still dutifully dabbing.
Fuck it.
Fuck him.
Fuck him and his perfect face and almond shaped eyes that plead and squishy nose and those thin lips that are a dull rosy hue and that he folds in too often.
What...?
I carelessly smear a wad of acne cream over my left cheek.
"I miss a spot?" He asks.
I don't say anything. But I DO quickly turn my head back to my own mirror. Don't need any of that, no sir. No sir indeed.
I feel a little stirring, but nothing big. No fireworks. Nothing like you're supposed to feel. When I'll read books, later, it'll say that most people have a big moment. A big "a-ha!" or, "Eureka!" (if you're of the greek inclination) moment.
Mine was just repressed and confused.
But I am horribly aware of the fact that all he has to do is splash water on his face before bed.
When I make him smell the cream, he makes a face,
"That's sick, man. SICK."
I sigh. He's talking about so many things.
We were 16.
And all hell breaks loose.
It starts with a rumor.
Then a tearful breakup.
Then him crying on my shoulder.
He doesn't wash his face.
He doesn't brush his teeth.
He doesn't shave.
I put on my cream though, like a good.
Because, no matter what I do, I can't seem to get rid of my acne.
It's not much now, but it's there. And it's hideous.
"I don't understand... She was perfect... She was hot and she was nice and she had great tits..."
I nod understandingly but I'm staring at his ass, which I can see through his cheap linen boxer shorts.
It's not one of those repulsive, in your face, bubble type butts.
It's nice. Unpretentious.
"...I let her do anything! I trust her! I love her! And this is how she rep..."
I don't listen.
But I nod.
And I dab.
And I don't understand.
"It's cuze I leaned left on my first kiss. Fuck. It's always the leaning left! Why can I never remember you?"
He doesn't mean it like that.
He's just flustered and sometimes, when he's flustered, he forgets words.
When he forgets words, all sorts of mayhem ensues.
I'm still not listening. Though I do find it interesting he always blames it on my stupid advice. For all I know, you ARE supposed to lean left!
But I say nothing.
I nod.
And,
as usual.
I dab.
We are 16.
It is late.
And cold.
And I've been studying for mid terms.
I don't have time to sleep, like normal people.
I quietly get into my pajama's and, toiletries safely in hand, I stumble to the bathroom.
My mind swims with astrology, with signs of the zodiac, with tea leaves...
There's just one left.
That bugger on my nose.
It's wife and soft and pink and UGLY.
I'm going home soon, for the holiday, so I take a glump of cream and just plop it on the offending spot.
I think about having a go, but decide not to. I'm not in the mood. Too tired to be bothered.
It's a good thing I don't because he walks in.
He's not wearing a shirt.
He is, however, wearing women's underwear.
"Nice bottoms," I say, without really batting an eye. Though it does accentuate his nice behind. Which I tend to to notice.
"You wouldn't be making fun of me if you knew!" he crows, "I just..."
"You didn't."
"I did."
Fuck. Wow. I hate to admit it, but, it's impressive.
"Nice."
"Thank you."
He bows to an unseen audience.
"I leaned left thought" he says sadly.
"Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you do lean left," I don't really want to talk about it. I really would like to go to sleep. Or for him to take off those panties.
"No I'm 100 sure it's right and I always fuck it up! I mean, what's wrong with me? Why can't I follow one of the few, simple rules of manhood? Is there something wrong-"
I leaned left.
So he could lean right.
It's long.
I love the sound.
He is warm.
I pull away.
There is some silence.
He takes out his toothbrush.
"I leaned left for you," I venture.
He nods.
"That means you leaned right. You did it correctly once."
He nods.
"Now you'll stop bitching about it."
He nods.
He spits.
He rinses.
"Thanks," he says and smiles at me.
He turns and walks out, as he gets to the door he turns and looks-
"you've got something... there" He points to his nose.
"It's acne cream," I say, dejectedly.
"Oh. Cool. Is it new? I've never noticed your acne before..."
I love it when people inadvertently make your day.
Or month.
Or life.
Or whatever.
xX... Done! Review, wontcha!?!? ...xX