Your pig sty or mine?

Lets talk. I'd like to tell you a tale. A tale of boys I've kissed. A tale of ones that hurt me, maybe not intentionally, but still, they did.

I was thinking the other day of all my injuries sustained during my life, and I thought of something:

All of them included a damn boy!!

Now sit down on the tattered circle rug, it's story time, cookies and juice served after, of course.

I told you recently of a broken arm playing Tarzan with my brother (a boy) but this one does not count.

The others do though.

Mean little boys with their smirks, charms and puppy dog tails... et al.

An ode to the evil little laughs and sweet kisses that make a gal do stupid, stupid things.

Like the time when I was about 9 and bouncing on a neighbor's trampoline while visiting my Grandparents. I was thinking about bunnies and innocent, sweet little pink, girly things when a scoundrel of a boy came by and lured me behind the shed. My innocence allowed this to happen, you know being all sugar and spice... et al.

I kissed him. He kissed me. Please don't tell my mom or my brother (he would track him down and ruffle his feathers a bit).

I remember that kiss, it smelled, well, the kiss didn't smell, it was close to a pig sty and it smelled there behind the shed. But it was a soap opera kiss, because he asked me if it could be, and I said no (then yes.....).

Soap opera kisses were without tongue and basically a lot of smooshed lips and hands groping each others head whilst trying to remember to breathe between each passionate uncoordinated mauling. I remember being yelled at to leave every time a "soap opera" kiss came on TV, and now, I was a woman, living one out with a stranger (tres' scandalous).

I met that boy there on that foot of ground between the shed and a fence for the whole summer visit with my Grandparents, by the pigs, in the stink, learning how to be a sexy femme' fatale actress in a love scene and also how NOT to step in pig feces.

But you always step in shit when boys are involved, it's inevitable to get a little "stink" on ya, so I always have.

But the visits AFTER the first kissing encounter were on crutches.

"Why?" you ask sweetly engaged in my twisted tale of mean boys and pig stench.

Well it's simple, the evil boy did it!

I had gone back to the trampoline just a bit giddier than before, jumping with friends, singing "My Baby Takes the Morning Train" by Sheena Easton (Surprised I remember the song? Well,, you tend to remember what song you were singing when it involves a broken bone).

I knew I was getting married to that scoundrel of a boy that lured me to sin behind the shed. And of course,,,, you can't concentrate on trivial things like the dimensions of a trampoline when you are planning a future of wedded bliss. So I had miscalculated the edge of the trampoline and bounced right off onto the ground (I was not the "graceful as a gazelle" woman that I am now on that day).

The resulting "snap" of a bone was heard all through the neighborhood, and started my tumultuous relationship with "pig boys" and their cunning snips and snails... et al.




....to be continued... et al.......