Thursday, March 02, 2006

Softer Than a Mammary

They speak to me, the angels behind the Starbucks counter.
"What's your order sir?" They say with a voice that seems as gentle as a kitten's dream and softer than a mammary.

And every morning I tell myself that this morning, for once, I'm going to force myself to smile politely and tell her my drink order like a rational member of a civilized society. And not lunge over the counter, screaming my love in grunts as I try to lick her neck.

And every morning I fail.

There are a number of subtle signals the cute barista at your local Starbucks will give if it turns out she has absolutely zero interest in having her neck licked by a frantically grunting customer. I've had my nose broken by the removable metal housing on the cappuccino machine so many times now that it sounds like an orchestra tuning up every time I go to sneeze.

I've become a wound collector, that's what I've become. Every evening I put on a little cap and that long magnifying eyepiece thingy and appraise my wounds with a professional's critical gaze. Figuratively speaking of course... well except for the little cap and magnifying eyepiece thingy--I do have those. And I do sometimes wear them when I'm appraising my wounds. But other than that it's figurative.



(Chest to chest is passionate but our hearts are on different sides. Let me press upon your back and our ventricles will align!

Cute Starbucks baristas don't ever seem to be in the mood to have that shrieked at them by panting customers either.)

10 Comments:

At 6:38 AM, Blogger Mary Lewys said...

Thanks. I've now laughed up a lung. Who's going to clean up this mess?

 
At 9:59 AM, Anonymous Strange Forces said...

Sweet Monkey Jesus, that's one of the funniest things I've read in a long time.

I will see if I can try the "chest to chest" line on someone at the club tonight.

 
At 10:56 AM, Blogger Francis Marion Tarwater said...

Do you realize that out of the tens of thousands of bloggers out there, you are probably the only one of them all to have ever posted something with the title "Softer Than a Mammory?"

 
At 11:44 AM, Blogger Trevor Record said...

That's a shame, because any smart girl knows that a man who can put the word "ventricles" in his poetry and make it work is worth at least a round of the in and out.

 
At 1:02 PM, Blogger Teaspoon said...

do not get discouraged LF, chicks dig scars.

Maybe not so much if they are the ones that are causing them, but still, chicks dig scars

 
At 1:31 PM, Blogger OldHorsetailSnake said...

This reminds me: Is anybody selling His and Her Intravenous Lattes? Seems like it would be just the thing for tandem bicycle rides.

 
At 1:52 PM, Blogger hen said...

Aren't there patches you can get now - you know to stop the neck licking cravings... or am I thinking of something else.

Anyway maybe they are just playing hard to get?

 
At 4:50 PM, Blogger Lightning Bug's Butt said...

I've been thinking about your chronic barista problem. Here's the problem:

They're sober!

Start hitting on bar whores and cocktail waitresses. Hooch is the real sexual lubricant.

 
At 5:43 PM, Blogger Cad Grublygold said...

I poked me a kitten once while he was dreaming, an just about got my finger bit clean off. They may dream gentle, but once they wake, run like hell.

 
At 11:55 PM, Blogger Latigo Flint said...

That's a rhetorical question, isn't it Mary Lewys? And rhetorical questions don't demand a answer. (But if it isn't, then I'd probably recommend the extra absorbent model of Swiffer brand mops. Those things are great, and you just throw it away when you're done.)

I hope that went better for you, Strange Forces, than it has for me.

Solace Layfield, Google it my friend... rumor has it I'm the first and only, and not just in the wretched blogosphere.

Smart girls aren't allowed in Los Angeles County Trevor Record. And the ones that make it across the border have learned to adapt.

I'm nothing but one big, twisted, quivering scar TSP... hasn't worked for me yet though.

Old Hoss, don't be mad if you see me on that inventing show from the producers of American Idol. I'd share the credit with you, but it turns out I'm an asshole.

Cyanide patches Hen, I think that's what you're thinking of. I'm affixing one even as I type.

I'll take it under advisement LBB.

So true Grublygold. Hey, off topic, it turns out I'm dead inside. And that's a pretty sexy and dangerous thing to be.

 

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