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    <h1>Bristles</h1>
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<p class="nav"><span class="nav-left">Listed under <a href="/heartiste-2010.html">Heartiste: 2010</a>.</span><span class="nav-right"><a href="/theme.html">Theme</a></span></p>
<p>From the <a href="https://heartiste.org/2010/09/18/bristles/" target="_blank">original article</a> on September 18, 2010. Author: <a href="https://heartiste.org/" target="_blank">Chateau Heartiste</a>.</p>
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  <p>“Wow, I can’t believe I neglected to do this. Can I come inside and use your bathroom real quick? Yeah, I know, I should have gone at the bar.”</p>
  <p>She cocked her head and a wisp of sandy blonde hair tumbled across her left cheek. She smiled.</p>
  <p>“Of course, you can use my bathroom.”</p>
  <p>“Just the bathroom, that’s all. I’m gonna hold you to that.”</p>
  <p>She giggled. “Ok.”</p>
  <p>Her place was smartly decorated. A geometric mobile acted as a partition between her bed and the room. She pointed to the bathroom and I closed the door. Lifting the toilet seat, I let my gaze relax on her patterned wallpaper. This pissing felt particularly pleasurable. I flushed and exited, walking to her studio apartment window.</p>
  <p>“You have a good view of the students across the street. Are you an exhibitionist?”</p>
  <p>“I don’t think so. Are you a voyeur?”</p>
  <p>“Yes.” I walked into her personal space. She held her ground. “Who isn’t a voyeur?”</p>
  <p>“Well, I’m not a pervert, but if that’s your thing, I won’t stop you.”</p>
  <p>“If I want to be stopped, I’ll let you know.”</p>
  <p>She parted her mouth as if about to formulate a reply, but fell short. I noticed her palms had opened and were facing my thighs.</p>
  <p>“I really... like your place...” I leaned in and softly brushed my lips sideways across hers.</p>
  <p>Her tongue escaped with a fury, pushing for the dark recesses of my mouth. I withdrew, pulled back, and examined her pupils. She became shy.</p>
  <p>“Oh god, that makes me nervous.”</p>
  <p>“What does?”</p>
  <p>“You doing that. Looking at me and not saying anything.”</p>
  <p>“Good. It’s hot when you’re nervous.”</p>
  <p>Kissing resumed. I could taste a little of the artisanal beer on her tongue. She pressed into my face, and a whimper echoed in her throat. Something scratched my upper lip. I pulled back, then returned to her mouth. Still more scratching. Pulling back once more, I spot checked her upper lip. All clear. A visual inspection revealed nothing but soft skin. More kissing. More irritating scratching. Like a Brillo pad scrubbing my philtrum. Five minutes and a semi-chub later, I disengaged to allow my upper lip a moment of relief from the interminable stinging.</p>
  <p>She opened her mouth for more, eyes half-lidded. I paused. Her eyes widened quizzically. Reluctantly, I rejoined the oral battle with her tongue, lips, and whatever phantom torment occupied the tender region between her upper lip and nose. The pain resumed, and I could no longer deny it; she had a hedgerow of invisible bristles above her mouth — scratching, scraping, scrubbing the epidermis from my face. I could not even fool myself these were soft female hairs; I was kissing 5 o’clock stubble. Once more, I stepped back and microscopically perused her face and mouth. I could see nothing. But the bristles were there, invisible and abrasive.</p>
  <p>“You know, it sounds cliched, but I’m not that kind of girl.” Her red face and swaying hips belied her words.</p>
  <p>“Hey, I’m trying to turn over a new leaf. I’m a different guy from the old me. I’m a gentleman now.”</p>
  <p>“Oh... Ok.”</p>
  <p>“I’ll give you a call.” One more kiss, this time with my mouth pursed defensively, and my fingers already deleting her number.</p>
  <p>Outside, I passed a group of undergrad girls reveling in the 1AM street lamp glow. All tits and ass, bursting into existence. Their philtrums glistened, danced and swayed, and I wondered which of them held no secrets.</p>
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