Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Making Fond(le) Memories.

Okay. So, I might be Down With Love. But I'm most definitely Up With Lust. Most definitely. Flat out. Big style. Amen.

I've just dropped My Incubator off at the airport. The Mother, like her father, has an obsession for punctuality. I didn't get that gene. Nope, like my own dad, I'm a worshipper of tardiness. And procrastination. And all those things that irritate people.

The point is, we found ourselves at the airport an hour early. Yes, THREE hours before her plane was due to take off! She's going for a quick two week holiday with her friend. Does this warrant an emotional airport goodbye? Long hugs? Extra kisses? I'm-going-to-miss-you-most-of-all-scarecrows? The two wenches managed to squeeze out tears too. It was positively hillbillie-esque. For the record, I was prepared to drop and run.  But she insisted, "Babes, I'm not going to see you for two whole weeks.  Or my granddaughter.  Please come in for a drink."

And I was out of the car quicker than you could say, "Savanna on ice, please."

And because I was expecting a more evolved kind of airport farewell, I was ill-prepared to actually get out the car. To put it bluntly, I was wearing a vest, bra-less, without built-in support. And airport aircons work. The result? A slightly embarrassed Pant and a bevy of salivating German tourists (exiting bathrooms).

The Pant attempted to remain composed. And I really hope I looked dignified - although that's probably a pipe dream given that, well, it was so cold in the airport that there were two neat little holes in my vest - just slightly below chest level.

But work that aircon did.

The Pant was so excited by the attention that she attempted to strike up a conversation.
Picture it:

(In the passage outside ablution facilities. Faint pee smell. Strong detergent stench. They're walking out. I'm walking in - desperate for wee).

German hottie-hot-pantses ogling chest area of Pant. Flash smile (it's big, I know it works.)

TP: Hi! How are you guys?

Germ 1 - staring at breastage, unable to speak.

Germ 2 - staring at breastage, wiping drool from both corners of mouth.

Germ 3: Huh?

Bloody hell! I'd forgotten that effing language barrier bullshit thing. Shitballs! Crap in a bag and punch it twenty-seven times.

There was no time for Charades.  Look, I'm good at any type of game - but not when you've had two bottles of water, a coke, and a Savanna on ice.  Then you've got to run.

But it's baby steps, right? And I think a tourist would be perfect. They leave on good terms. And so one will always have fond(le) memories of the lust and just know that nothing more could have happened. Because it just couldn't have.

I'm digging some lusty rebound tourist action. Mmmmm hmmmm. Yes please.

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