Everyone wants to tongue kiss Tom Cruise, even the deniers, or, especially those. I learnt in middle school, don’t protest anything too much – and I’m talking politics, rallies and heckling from girls sure they’ve figured your secret out. But I didn’t fancy Nikki, didn’t want George, or I did but not when they thought it. It’s the blushing, the “No no no,” that gets you found. Instead it’s better to stick with a “maybe,” to stay with a “sure,” to play with a “could be.”
And every hater I’ve met, faced with the chance, would fuck Tom Cruise, French kiss him, if only for the experience of it, to say they touched god with their eyes open and savoured every second although they slipped like new-fangled rollercoaster rides, more concerned with speed, projection, than sway and swing and spin and the string in the pit of stomachs pulled like a puppet by air.