Kindrow had never liked kissing with tongues. Why should this be? He was old enough to remember when it was something girls didn't do at age ten, but young enough to consider himself uninfluenced by the mores of his generation, if you could call them that.
He had to guess it was just personal taste, but lately a variety of sources had called this previously convenient theory into question. Kindrow liked to believe he was no enemy of skepticism. Sure, he said, I'll bite.
The first claim he had to rebut was that of his therapist. No easy task. Kindrow liked his therapist. In fact, truth be told, maybe he liked her a little too much. At night he would think of her and masturbate. This idea though, that she thought he was somehow stuck up or repressed for not enjoying tongues, it was starting to ruin that for him. Kindrow didn't want this. He didn't want to find a new therapist. It was cheaper, and more beneficial, than a hooker to keep seeing Alaine.
My fuck, what sexy name! He'd always found it erotic, the way it rolled off your tongue.
Ach, tongue again! He had to stop masturbating so much.
The second was from a young woman, much younger than himself, that he'd probably never see again. He'd been sitting in a crowded bar in Downtown Oakland, talking with the regulars; all of whom he knew, though he wouldn't have counted himself among their number.
...When all of a sudden this woman walked up. Young-ish, but a woman. The mores of his generation were clearer about some things than others, or were they? In any case, he didn't have much time to think.
Hey, she said. You wanna go make out?
Sure, he replied, casually, though for Kindrow this was impossible.
They walked away from the smoking patio of the bar, until they got down Telegraph avenue a ways, then took a left around the corner. It wasn't that remote.
Where? Here? Kindrow said.
No. No names. No information...
Kindrow got down to it. He placed his hands upon her thighs, caressed her lovingly, whatever you called it these days. He couldn't believe his luck.
Mind you, she said, no promises. This is just a make out. It probably won't lead to anything.
It's ok, he said. I'm not a rapist.
And, and, and...
Again, it all came down to the question of the tongue. The thing was, Kindrow just didn't like other people's tongues in his mouth. Alaina acted like she was no Freudian. The anonymous woman at the bar acted like she was open minded.
Kindrow wondered how “open minded” either of them could be if they would not simply acknowledge even the idea of preference without resorting to Freudianisms and unmanning. The reader may well be wondering what he meant by that. By “unmanning”, Kindrow meant the allegation that a man was somehow less a man because of certain behaviors or preferences.
Last time he checked, the qualifications, while nothing to be proud of, certainly, were fairly minimal.
In both cases, Kindrow had hoped for more than he'd gotten; as he supposed he always would, because the simple fact was, no matter how much he might work on it, with Alaina, or any number of anonymous women, he had a small...