Dog meat and vodka kisses

His breath smelled strongly of vodka. Delicately, we kissed, with our lips sealed and then opening just a bit to allow the tip of the tongue to peek out and probe, or to share a namkeen peanut- mouth to mouth- in a conscious (for me) re-enactment of gratuitous kisses in gay pornography. His breath smelled strongly of vodka. Or was it vodka. He must have been drinking before we met. Whisky perhaps. He spoke in a broken, sing-song, sputtering manner, and each time, i asked him to repeat what he had said. Has my search for a fantasy twink ended here? The sing-song was perhaps the singer in him- he imitated Elvis quite competently. But how can I say, having hardly heard Elvis. Remember having seen him in a movie where he plays a megalomaniac star singer. Can't recall the name of the movie. Only the parted cherubic lips of rennaisance ignudi and shimmery sad eyes. The swaying hips and that 60s, heart-stopping swagger. But his breath did not smell of dog meat. Well, just like Elvis, dog meat was an unknown quantity for me or was it? Maybe it does not smell like anything at all- man's best friend and food, like the French soldiers in War and Peace who, unlike their farty bucolic Russian counterparts, left only traces of powdery delicate odour even days after having passed away. Must be the delicate and ambrosial French food, wonder the Pavlograd Hussars. He feared the dog meat here was not safe- stray, scorbutic, tick infested dogs. Back home, he fattened his own dog for the kill. Domesticated, clean. The dog only responded to food, not to training, not even his name, James. James knew his job only too well. Eat heartily and get ready for the altar. the kisses through the odourless dog meat and the reek of vodka breath were sweet...