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Flirting (MF)
by Mat Twassel (mmtwassel@aol.com)
Date: Nov 1, 1998
Flirting: five or six metaphors
===
As a second grader, when I had no notion of sex whatever, I
had a kind of crush on a bright beautiful girl in my class.
We flirted by seeing who could do the multiplication tables
fastest, who could get the highest score on tests
===
Anne Thrope is Kim with all the flirting scraped off.
===
I prefer peaches to fireworks. At a New Year's party of six
or seven couples, the girls made peach flambee... whoosh,
the brandy almost went to the ceiling. I don't remember how
the dish tasted, probably pretty good, but I'd had far too
much wine, tumblers of sweet pink stuff, while a pretty
girl, Gail S---, flirted with me much of the night. Her
eyes danced in mine. Sometimes they darted down to the
crotch of my jeans, just a quick careless caress of a glance,
and then she'd grin and touch me with more silly talk. I'm
not used to that kind of attention, and the semisubconscious
part of me certainly wanted to strip off all her clothes and
kiss and fuck all her peachy parts. Isn't that what
flirting's all about?
In the parking lot back at our apartments, Laura teased me
about what a good time I'd had, especially after I threw up in
the gutter.
===
Net flirting (and this is not based on my experience)
suggests too much what is missing.
===
Summers the whole family gathers in a huge beach house.
Relatives and friends and friends of friends show up. This
summer Pat is 16, the same age as Cousin Jake.
After the afternoon swim, the kitchen is crowded. Pat has
kicked her flip-flops into the flip-flop corner, and is
bending over to prod the nearly dry sand from between her
toes. Her breasts this year have become big. Globes! You
can see almost all of them as she leans forward.
A moment later her cousin Jake's dad's friend flirts with
Pat's bathing beauty breasts. "You're sure you don't have
sand in there?" he says. His eyes point to Pat's bold new
breasts. She blushes. "This sand must have come from
somewhere? Maybe you should shake out again on the porch?
Sure you don't want me to help you?"
"Don't tease her, Sammy," says Sammy's wife. "You'll make
her shy."
"Just wondering about the sand, that's all," says Sam, "You
know how slippery sand can be."
Pat's little sister Julie, who must be about 11, overhears
this banter. After dinner she strolls with Jake along the
beach, a quiet walk, but eventually she asks him how sand
can be slippery.
"Huh?" Jake says.
Julie recounts the conversation in detail.
"He was just liking your sister's breasts," Jake grins.
"Oh," Julie says. A contemplative "oh." "But you like
them, too. I've seen you looking."
Jake just grins.
"You'd like to hold them, wouldn't you?"
"Who says I haven't?" For emphasis he whirls around, a
three-sixty spin.
"Have you?" Julie asks.
"One shouldn't say about such things," Jake says. His tone
is soft and serious, but he's still grinning.
Why not? is on the tip of Julie's tongue, but she let's that
question rest there. "What about mine?" is what she finally
asks, and it comes out petulantly innocent.
"What about them?"
"Do you think they'll grow as big... as beautiful?"
"I don't see why not." Jake, the sure-footed authority,
kicks the surf.
"But what if they don't?" Julie says. "What if I stay a
flattie... forever?"
"No way," Jake says, "I've been watching you--you're budding
already."
"I am?"
"Noticeable," he says. "Real noticeable." He puts a finger
almost against the tip of one nipple. "Your breasts are
beautiful now," he says.
"Would you like to touch?" Julie asks.
Jake nods. He touches. His fingertip brushes up against
where the nipple is. Only for the smallest moment. The
lightest of light touches. The surf roars. "No ones breasts
will ever be better than yours," he says.
Then he scampers towards the beach house.
===
I had lunch at the diner. Meat loaf. Mashed potatoes.
Peas. The waitress was about 20, pretty, her butt just a
little big (for my taste), her nose a little twisted.
"What kind of dressing?" she said.
"What are my choices?" I asked.
(That's about as close to flirting as I ever come with
strangers.)
--Mat Twassel