An Open Letter To A One Night Stand: Part Two.

Hiya! Me again!

Now, I’ll understand if you’re upset after that last letter, I wrote it while I was a bit pissed off with you. It was a heat of the moment kind of thing I guess. If heat of the moment means more than two months later on an otherwise quiet evening in front of the TV. Look sometimes the truth is hard to hear and sometimes the only person willing to tell you it is a jerk. Sometimes that jerk is someone you put your genitals in. Sometimes that’s just how it works out. Sorry.

So it was like this. It was late, the lights were all on, I was not drunk enough to be into this as much as I would have liked. For some reason I found myself going down on you. It was all going well, at least, I thought it was going well – you’re welcome to write me a letter of my own if it wasn’t. That’s fine. Where were we? Oh yeah, I was going down on you and thinking, “Why am I still here? Am I enjoying this? How long is this going to go on for? Are we done yet?”. Obviously I didn’t communicate that, admittedly I didn’t communicate much; it’s hard to in that position. I was giving it my all, doing my best to make this a memorable evening for all the right reasons and you asked me, “Do you like pineapples?”

I stopped, looked at you, and raised an eyebrow. “Pineapples?” I replied. “Pineapples.” You answered in a breathless voice. “They’re ok.” I was now leaning back on my haunches, worried. “Cool. Hang on a moment.”

The ten seconds you had your back turned to me felt like an eternity. The idea of running, naked, through Hackney until someone discovered me breathless in London Fields jabbering “Pineapple… pineapple…” seemed like an enticing prospect. I started to wonder what kind of pineapple this was: a real one? Pre-cut cubes? Tinned? What can two naked people do with a tin of pineapple rings? Wait. Wait. I see what you can do. But I didn’t want to! By the time you turned around I was in a cold sweat.

When I saw the bottle of lube, rather than an enormous sprouting pineapple, I was at first placated. You’ll never understand how wonderful it is to not see a naked man holding a pineapple. However that relief quickly turned into fear again. This was even worse than a pineapple itself. You handed me the bottle and directed me to put it on your bits. I looked at the bottle. It said ‘Piña Colada’. I knew then that my favourite cocktail would never be the same again.

Some tastes are burned into your brain forever. The crab salad I had on my 25th birthday is so crisp and clear I like to imagine it late at night and fall asleep with the taste on the tip of my tongue. My first cigarette in the alleyway behind St Albans train station, and the musky minted taste it left on the air. The jar of potted shrimp I ate with my Dad just before Christmas that I wished would never end. As a glutton I know that at any moment I can conjure a recipe from thin air and relive it through my imagination alone. Never did I think such a skill would be so sorely abused.

As I squeezed a drop of it into my palm it released a coconut smell so strong my eyes watered. Then I squeezed another drop into my hand, now there was a sour note, not unlike gummy sweets left in the sun; something I assume was trying to approximate pineapple. The ‘pineapple’ you had so huskily whispered to me seconds before. With a tentative hand I began to smear it on you and then with great trepidation I dove in.

It’s hard to describe the taste without resorting to hyperbole, and it’s making me feel nauseous thinking about it, so I want to break it down to it’s bare components: saccharine, glue, and ball sack.

As I walked home in the morning I could still smell it, as though it had become part of me and was seeping from my pores. It began to rain and I hoped that it would wash away the smell but like an XXX rated Lady Macbeth that pineapple was everywhere. While I wasn’t quite close to tears I did wonder if being sick, repeatedly, in a shower would wash away the memory of it. Sadly I didn’t dare try lest it reawaken the half digested sugar substitute festering in the gaps between my teeth.

If you’re reading this far and you still don’t get it. If you just think I’m a picky bitch who didn’t like you, or who should have spoken up during the evening, or that you don’t know what the big fuss is all about: smear some Piña Colada lube on your fingers and suck them for 20 minutes then get back to me.

Actually don’t get back to me, but still do that. It’s the very least you deserve.

Bisous,

Vanessa