Different Strokes, Folks

One of the things that I find endlessly fascinating about the various Kenettes who've come in and out of my life is how different they all seem to be when it comes to matters of the loins. Some have been impossibly freaky--typically the ones who stay around the longest--while others have been surprisingly staid and upstanding (their association with me, of course, not withstanding). But the movement from one Kenette to another can often be jarring.

Case in point: A couple years out of college, I met Kenette D. Around our third or fourth date, we arrived back at her apartment after a movie to have a few drinks. After the third drink, she calmly, matter-of-factly removed her underwear and then pressed it against my face.

My first thought was, did she dip those things in choloroform and is now trying to kill me?

She said something along the lines of, "Just inhale that. Doesn't it make you want me even more?"

Hokey and psuedo-porno dialogue, yes. But I found it oddly intriguing. And arousing.

And this maneuver became her modus operandi. We'd go out, eat or drink, and I knew at some point she'd be trying to smother me with her panties. And as predictable as it was, there was something just so goddam freaky about it that everytime I saw her reach under her skirt, I found myself panting like a motherfucking dog waiting for his master to toss him a bacon snap.

As these things go, we broke up about half a year later. And I distinctly remember the next girl I dated. The first time we went out, we ended up at my place for some extended tonsil hockey. Then my mind got all silly with booze and lust and memories.

"Do you want to... make me smell your underwear?"

::abrupt silence::

"What?"

"Er... do you--"

"Did you just ask if you could smell my underwear? Are you fucking serious?"

"Well, I--"

"I'm outta here."

And with that, she was gone. And an important lesson was learned. Namely, one woman's good time is another woman's restraining order.

Remember that, folks.