Overcome with guilt…

June 9, 2007 at 6:00 pm (Sweet sticky things)

…and in need of a haircut, it was time to see my barber/therapist, Clairissa.

I’ve been single for a few months, but haven’t exactly been on the prowl. The break-up was hard on me. I still communicate frequently with the X-GF and haven’t been dating anyone new. Until the other day.

I’d been wanting to see Shrek the Third, as had a co-worker, so I absent-mindedly suggested we go together. We agreed to go after her AM shift to an early matinee. I hadn’t thought much about it until she started telling co-workers not to let her fresh-out-of-jail husband know where she was. Great…

So, for a fresh perspective from a woman’s point of view I set up an appointment with Clairissa.

I arrived at Hot Box a couple of minutes early. She was finishing up a client, and introduced me as “the guy who wrote that story about me on the internet.” (Hi!) I wrote down my URL for her, they hugged, then it was just Clairissa and I.

She squeezed my head, scalp-massaging. “So, what’s going on?”

“Glad you asked,” I began. “I went on a date yesterday, and it freaked me out a bit.”

“Details please.” She found the clippers while I rambled on.

“Well, I went with a gal to see Shrek the Third, and through the whole movie I kept feeling guilty. I know I’m free to do whatever, but it still didn’t seem right. It had nothing to do with the lady I went with. Okay, the ex-con husband is a minor concern, but it was innocent. It was like going to the movies with my sister. We didn’t even hug goodbye. yet all the way home, I felt like crying.”

“Why? You did nothing wrong.” She started the clippers at the neckline, and clumps of hair fell off the back.

“I know. But as soon as I got home, I e-mailed the X-GF and talked her into going out for a quick dinner.”

“How’d that go?”

“It was great. About halfway through dinner, I told her what I’m telling you. Confession is good for the soul, and this felt too much like a secret. Besides, the Shrek movies have always reminded me of us. We are that couple. The voice of reason and the ogre. Seeing it with someone other than her seemed more adulterous than a $5 handjob.”

“How did she take it?”

“Fine. When I told her it felt like cheating, she said, ‘It’s not, you know.’ It still felt like it. It showed me that I’m so not ready to move on. It came out of left field, and took me by surprise. Once we talked about it, I was fine again. Much like when I come talk to you.”

Most of my hair was gone on both sides, bit I had an inch-thick mohawk at the moment. “So, you’ve got some comments from my blogpost about you?”

She brightened. “Yeah, dude! Some friends came in and said “There’s this old creepy dude who wrote a story about you and your huge knockers and how you’re all hot and stuff…’ What did you say?”

“I did not say huge knockers! I said New York boobs. It’s a Dave Chappelle reference. He did a thing in a monologue about how is a guy supposed to compliment a girl on her mighty fine titties without sounding like a lecherous perv, so he gave them a New York approval stamp. If they’re from New York, they must be great boo-”

“Okay, I get the Chappelle reference. Hell, I know I have big ones. I’m always rubbing them up against people.” She demonstrated on my shoulder.

Squirm. “Yet another reason why I keep coming back.”

“I just changed the piercings. They were getting caught on my seat belt.”

I snorted. “Your nipples were getting caught on your seat belt?”

“Yeah, the bells were too big. I’ve got regular-sized ones in there now.” I could see bumps under the sports bra. “They were, well, it’d be easier to show you.” She lifted her shirt and sports bra, and I went speechless for a few seconds.

Gorgeous, firm, curvy, delicious. All these descriptions were flying through my mind. I looked at the piercings, which went diagonally through the nipples, in a front slash back slash way. (\ /) “How big were the bells before?” I asked dreamily.

I was amazed at how they defied gravity, yet jiggled so perfectly. The soft pink aureoles the size of a half-dollar. “How big were the bells?” I asked again.

“Harumph-humph humph.”

I looked up, and saw her tongue sticking out, with a larger barbell through it. It dawned on me that she’d been standing there with her tongue dangling for at least ten seconds while I was lost in a mammarian wonderland. “Sorry. Got lost there.” I could feel the gentleman in me emerging, and started to blush.

“Where’s your polka-dot dog, mister? You’re redder than a fire engine!” She started putting them away. “And they’re all mine. They were big before, but I put on twenty pounds. Mostly on my chest, I think.”

I looked at her, square in the eye this time, and said, “They… are… magnificent.” It was her turn to blush. She stuck her tongue out at me, flicked my ear and gave me a wink.

Soon I was properly groomed once again. She “removed the Groucho” from my eyebrows, (after using some neck hair to give me this awesome faux-unibrow) dusted the short and itchies off my head, and it was time to go.

As always, I left feeling high on life, good about myself, and looking mahvelous, dahling. Believe it or not, even with getting a double eyeful of voluptuousness, it wasn’t the most therapeutic session we’ve had. She’s talked me through more stuff than I can recall. Alcohol problems, women problems, the ‘I hate my job’ stuff. She’s been there for me the last few years, and I love her dearly for doing so.

And I don’t feel one bit guilty about that!

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