Many years ago, I went on a date with a certain guy. I don’t know why. I wasn’t really attracted to him. Of course, chemistry or no, there came a point in the evening when he tried to kiss me. I turned my cheek just in time and the ensuing event, which landed in my hair, can’t quite be called a kiss. The phrase I used to describe it later was “snort-kiss.”
Now, many years down the road, Mr. Snort-Kiss is married to a friend of my friend. My friend is trying to get pregnant and she has been chitchatting with Mrs. Snort-Kiss, who already went through that ordeal. Women talk (and talk and talk), and somehow I became privy to information about Mr. Snort-Kiss’s “swimmers” (it seems they’re a mite slow).
Did I really need to know that?