The kiss was velvety soft, not quite sweet but tangy with alcohol, feminine without being too delicate, sexual without being aggressive. It was great, no question about it. It came from a stranger, I still don’t know her name. It came at the request of a coworker and friend. “Don’t show Jeff your breasts, he’s been at work every night of Mardi Gras all week. He’s seen Sixth street packed from curb to curb with drunken idiots wearing gaudy plastic trinkets. He’s seen things that would make the crew of the ‘Girls Gone Wild’ video sit down and cry. He is completely de-sensitized to the female breast. Just give him something to make him happy, and he’ll give you all the beads you want.” Thanks Sara.

And then the Kiss was over, and I look up from my newfound friend to see her boyfriend standing right behind us. Thanks Sara.

His response? A big grin. “Hey, It’s Mardi Gras! I don’t care what she does!”

I’m supposed to give up something for Lent today. I’m giving up Mardi Gras and getting some sleep.