Why my nipples taste like wine...

Ahhh, erotic wine tasting and the pain/pleasure complex. I had a wicked weekend.

Chico Gotico (we'll see if I can ever use 'Goth guy' again with such an excellent spanish substitute) is back on the scene. Again. Good times were had, even though, as usual, I felt like a terrible person for the next couple of days. If that's the price of a healthy conscience, I'll take it.

I haven't been to church for the last few weeks. I'm going to have to fix that. I cannot have myself slipping. I will not lose my faith to el gotico. I pray more than ever. But I rarely read my Bible, and I haven't been to church. Not THIS weekend. I am GOING to CHURCH.

And of course the quickest fix will be getting back to the book.

I feel a little hideous writing all this when I'm about to describe some highlights from my encounter with goth guy. (oh. I guess I can still use it.)

First of all, I tried my first wine. Very nice. It was a Merlot. And promptly after trying my first wine I discovered the fun and games involving my breasts, Goth guy's tongue and wine. Wow. Just wow.

And then... well, the point of it all is that there was wine, theological debate, bigfoot, argument over the validity of the moonlanding and a handsome set of scratch marks carved into his back by the end of it.

An evening well (or very, very badly) spent. Huzzah.