When Harry met Sally
A lot of you fellas were about 4 when this movie came out, but for those of you who weren’t, ya’ll will remember the scene in the movie where Harry and Sally are having brunch (that wonderful New York institution that I miss so much on gorgeous sunny sunglasses Sunday’s like today) after both had had pretty appalling dates the night before.
And Harry is telling Sally how although the date was crap, he had ended up taking the woman to bed anyway and how he had satisfied her ever need. Harry was quite the serial shagger post his divorce.
Sally puts down her pastrami on rye (Ratner’s Deli on Houston street was where this scene took place and it possibly makes the best sandwiches on the planet, well except for pulled pork, I mean not that you would see pulled pork in a jewish deli anyway!, BBQ from Sweatman’s in Eutaville, South Carolina, that is slightly East of Poedunk) and says to Harry, are you sure she really had an orgasm?
Then as many of us know, Sally proceeds to fake one right there in the deli, quite convincingly and Harry is horrified.
But this isn’t about orgasms actually, its about a more important theme to that movie. Can men and women just be friends? Is there really such a thing as Friends with Benefits? People you genuinely like, occasionally have sex with but remain, true and honest friends?
What happens when mates, really good mates, end up after a great night out on the town, talking non-stop, laughing, drinking beers, giggling about who would or wouldn’t be good in bed as they walk by in the pub on the way to the loo, kissing in a taxi on the way home?
We had had such a good time and I really wanted to kiss him. I just wanted to. And he was like, but we can’t because we’re mates, because, because we’re mates. We have so much fun together. I don’t want to screw that up by kissing you. And he’s right, totally right.
We are not for each other in any way shape or form as more than really good mates. Go shopping to sort out his wardrobe and get him the right glasses to perfect his still evolving look kinda mates. He trusts me to help him find the right clothes to make him even more irresistible. That is just so cool. Ya’ll I mean fuckadoodledo cool. A serious compliment in my book. Those kinds of mates you don’t find too often, not as a grown up anyway.
But, he’s too short for me and I’m too tall for him. He’s a little bit rough and I have a terrible thing for boys that wear pinky rings (ahem… by the way, are there any posh boys out there who really know how to f*** though? I mean properly f***? I must get to the bottom of this mystery and soon because a lot of people tell me you can’t. Surely this is an over-generalization, right!?! So calling all posh boys to set the record straight…)
For a guy that talks the most enormous game and has a list of conquests that frankly makes me blush, he was staring out the window of the cab, I think, quietly perplexed by this (or just drunk or both). I’m not sure he finds himself in this place very often.
And then well, I mean he is a red-blooded male afterall, he kissed me in the back of that taxi. And he wasn’t kissing with intent (you know the start soft and then progress to hard fairly quickly which translates roughly into, when this taxi stops we’re both getting out and going into your flat to ….).
No it wasn’t some over eager, tongue _ the way down your throat kiss and nope it wasn’t a Bobby Rae outside the high school dance kiss either (I challenge anyone to say they have had more than 5 of those in lifetime, I mean hell I am 36 and I’ve only ever had 2). Good kisses are what makes life that little bit sweeter, a bit like a good glass of sweet iced tea in August in LA (Lower Alabama).
A while back, at lunch over a bottle of champagne, I sized him up and thought, yep that boy is a good kisser. But here’s what I didn’t expect: it was categorically, hands down, the Softest Kiss I’ve ever had.
Ever. It was so, so lovely. Dang it, it was downright dreamy.
Now we’re just mates and bloody good ones, so no, it will probably never happen again, but a kiss that fine?
You gotta write about it.
Just gotta.
Mrs. Magnolia
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