Freudian cock block.
In life and in lust, especially, we all have moments where we fear that we’ve said too much. That we’ve skurred back those objects of infatuation whom we have been gently prodding forward, away from mere flirting and nearer to engaging in that more productive exchange which some are brazen enough to call a date. Sometimes it’s not even the actual words we use, but the implication behind them. And other times –
They aren’t even our words, but those of the artists whose (dance) remixed song we posted on said crush’s Facebook wall:
“With HEARTS on FIRE, I REACH OUT TO YOU tonight.”
They repeat that aggressive string of lyrics 16 times.
SIXTEENTIMES!
Shit.
A deeper inference was not my intention. I just thought he’d enjoy the beats. Eh – oh well. Too late to take it back now. And at least I reached out to him and posted it this afternoon. Semantics, sure, but that aught to soften the (odds that I’ve diminished our chances of exchanging) blow (jobs anytime soon) a bit.
