October 26th, 2004


The Power of Areola.

Conversation about love at an empty neighborhood bar last night:

HIM: So Ashley got married a couple of weeks ago.

ME: Jesus, haven’t seen her in years.

HIM: She was one of those enigmas. I remember when she hung out with Trent this one time. He called me afterward and told me that she'd essentially spent an hour-and-a-half professing her love for me.

ME: And then you boned her.

HIM: No. As you know she’s an attractive woman. But I don’t know … I just didn’t feel anything for her. She was too reserved for me. Then one night, after this house party, we both got drunk and she came over to my place ...

ME: And then you boned her.

HIM: No. She practically threw me down on my couch and raped me too.

ME: Ah yes. I remember you telling me this. But a year later, I remember you attempting miserably to hook up with her in the backseat of my car.

HIM: Yeah … all of a sudden I was hot for her. I pursued her for months. But by then she didn’t want to have anything to do with me.

ME: Seriously, what the hell caused you to unexpectedly fall for her like that?

HIM: Remember that photo you took of her at that New Years party?

ME: No, but go on.

HIM: She’d worn this really revealing dress. And I remember you pointing to the photo and saying, “Behold, Ashley’s areola.”

ME: That's right. A lot pinker than I'd expected. But let me get this straight: A glimpse of her nipple in a photograph suddenly made her irresistibly desirable to you?

HIM: Yeah. Weird huh?

ME: I suppose not.

Site Meter