Dear Couple Sucking Face,
The first time I saw you, in Manhattan’s Union Square station, I thought maybe you were saying goodbye, for like, a long time. How else to explain the five minutes of intense, face-sucking, ass-grabbing making out you two were getting into? As you stood there, right where the station splits off between the N, R and L trains, hundreds of commuters strode by, many of them transfixed by your tongues darting in and out of each other’s mouths. I stopped and watched for a second, too, concocting a fictional back story for the strange configuration in front of me. He worked in finance, and was heading down to Wall Street to trade some futures or something. She’d been visiting from out of town, flying back to her home in Minneapolis, to a soul-sucking job as an insurance adjuster. This makeout session was the culmination of five days of total bliss, sealed with promises to return as soon as possible.
But oh, I was so wrong about you two. I let it go that first time, considering the above fantasy scenario I’d concocted. And then I saw you guys again, three days later. Same exceedingly public spot where rats likely frolicked and food once rotted, same furious making out, with bodies smashed against one another at nine in the morning. Same handsy-hands all over each other. What? These two? Again? And it just kept happening. As of today, I’ve caught glimpses of your tongues and strands of saliva five times in the last two weeks, without even trying. You guys! We’re synchronized. And now I’ve gotta say something.
Let me give you a dose of harsh reality: You are saying goodbye for the 8-10 hours you’ll spend at work. Dude, don’t worry, your girlfriend and her tongue will still be there at the end of the day. No need to suck the life out of her facehole right now (and creepily, might I add, with your eyes open the entire time like you are preparing to swallow her head). And all the hugging? I promise, there will be no Jake Gyllenhaal “Day After Tomorrow” type disaster that will keep you apart. Your commute is not the end of “Casablanca.” There is no need to desperately try to make a baby every time you say goodbye.
And it is certainly not necessary to subject all of your fellow subway riders to just How In Love You Are Right Now so early in the morning, when we haven’t even had our breakfast cocktails yet. Listen, I love love — but your pathological desire to get to second base with each other on the daily, in my subway station, during my already annoying commute just makes me so cranky. So I’m begging you, please, go crazy on each other in the comfort of your apartment, but keep me out of your freaky-deaky sex life while I’m waiting for the train.