ello, jello

we checked out a friend of a friend’s “guest suite” yesterday. we thought we’d give it a glance. their three kids stared open-mouthed at us in the doorway, like my baby and I were something exotic. gay and bizarre and loud and colorful and dark and complex. a little bit of spice in their otherwise bland home. their mom had a plastered smile on, and her stoic husband stayed quiet and solemn throughout the tour. the house was too bright… too clean… totally devoid of all the important things. where was the art? The laughter? The scuffs and scribbles? Where was the noise? The only reasonable room was the kids playroom… which shared a wall with the guest suite. My girlfriend and I shared a mirthful glance. definitely no fucking in this room, then. We’d traumatize the poor kids. We soon said our goodbyes and in the private comfort of my Subaru I kissed her painted black lips. Hell no. Absolutely not.