I don’t know what comes over me and lean forward, make eye contact with old fellow, and politely say, “Excuse me, sir, what are you doing with my man? He’s taken. Go find a different peacock this evening. This cock is mine.”
“Queerbitch,” the man huffs to me. “You young faggots have your own bar. Let us have ours.”
I’m fairly good at reading lips. It’s a skill I have that I’ve picked up through the years. I don’t miss when Iron mouths: Kiss me.So I lean forward and plant my lips on his, place a hand over the same pec the old man had his claw over, and just about die for a few seconds. The earth splits open and the ground shakes. I hear bottles and glasses behind the bar crash to the floor. The kiss feels like 3.7 on the Richter scale. Mind-bending. Spine-clenching. Dick-hardening. Nipple-piercing. I’m quite surprised that Iron kisses like Darsey. Kaboom!The world ends. A total eclipse of the sun. Something extraordinary.
At the corner of my eye, papa shuffles away.