I’m almost positive that drinking before hand was bad mojo but when the ‘new’ chic in the back row passed out I knew I was meant to be here. I was made for such a time as this. I started mouth to mouth immediately.
You said that I shouldn’t be using my tongue during CPR and that my hand was on her breasts. That maybe I should back away.
Once, while in boot camp, our drill instructors thought it would be funny if they made a guy hump the full size, first aid doll. Which, he did...for an hour. I couldn’t see it but I could hear the bunk squeaking and the instructors yelling at him to “give it to her harder”.
So, yea, I know how to do CPR thank you very much.
You also questioned my credentials as a visiting instructor from Ecuador. I’m often mistaken as a latino of some variety and in this case I just failed to disabuse the person of the notion at the front door. !Me quiero a mi mismo!
But clearly you were into me as you kept digging.
“How long have you been doing Zumba?” You asked kneeling next to me.
What the fuck is Zumba? I was following the females in for the sole purpose of lifting some purses when I almost got caught reaching into one. The rest, is destino. I also couldn’t seem to stop playing with the still unconscious woman’s large breasts. So I managed to answer with: “Since the revolution, of course”.
“This is my second year and I’ve never seen you here before...And you had us dancing to death metal?!?”
You had that uppity, white girl oppressed look on your face. Like the look they have when you tell them sorry, this gas station doesn’t carry Creme Brûlée. Difficult crossword puzzles, in-grown hairs, and declining stock portfolios — it's hard out here for skinny, blond, Caucasians.
“South of Heaven by Slayer is a classic. A middle aged white women pretending to dance like J-Lo should remember her roots.”
“Why are you removing her bra?”
“It’s restricting her breathing...”
“I’m calling the cops...”
I needed a distraction.
“I noted earlier that you kept bending over directly in front of me causing a dance party in my pants. Did you want the ‘beto’ fat burner inside you as well?”
“What? Excuse me??”
“Madam, I have been...‘enhancing’ the experience of women whose husbands cannot “dance’ and need to get their wiggle on for many festival moons. Perhaps a private lesson is what you seek”. The accent was spot on, I assure you.
I used the few moments that you lost your ability to speak to write on the passed out women's boobie with a sharpie. “Narcissus. Saved your life. 555...”
I also swiped a loose 20 from your purse as you lectured me in a vocal pitch that only neutered men and small lap dogs can perceive. I began to feel a tinge of sorrow for the males under your roof but, not really.
In a sort of ghastly simplicity we remove the organ and demand the function. We make men without chests and expect of them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honour and are shocked to find traitors in our midst. We castrate and bid the geldings be fruitful. - CS Lewis
When your done pretending to be worthy of all the privilege you were born with, hit me up.
N.
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