"It's for a rating systems," Foggy explains, pronouncing each syllable very precisely. "I need to know."
In Foggy's drunk state, along with everybody else's, this reasoning goes unquestioned.
Most acquiesce to Foggy as he flits around the room -- likely because Foggy asks first, is gentle, and thoroughly enjoys every kiss.
"You are a good kisser," he tells a girl. "A good kisser."
Matt is a great kisser. Wrecks Foggy's scales. "This man," he says. "This man knocked my -- what's the saying? My foot gloves off."
"Socks," Matt reminds him. Matt who is a great kisser.
Foggy takes Matt's face in his hands and nods.
"You are a great kisser," he solemnly says. Foggy needs Matt to know this.
"He's a great kisser," he says to the girl next to them. Foggy is the best wingman. He's still holding Matt's face. It's too much effort to let go -- he pulls it towards her, Matt stumbling after, unprotesting. "So great. The best."
"Glad for you boys," is all she says.
"Thanks," Matt says. "Foggy, what are you doing?"
Foggy is squinting at his phone. "I wanted to tell Marci you're a great kisser," he says, his fingers slowly and meticulously picking out the letters, with a bonus random few thrown in when he slips, and deleting them seems too hard.
"Please don't tell Marci that," Matt says.
Foggy's squint intensifies. He tilts his head. "Marci says 'Put your dick in his mouth.'" He pokes Matt's arm. "Can I put my dick in your mouth?"
"Okay," Matt says.
"Wow," the girl next to them says.
"When?" Foggy wants to know.
"Maybe when you're less drunk," Matt says.
"Wow," she says again.
"Yeah," Foggy says. "Wow."
"Oh," Foggy says. "Oh, fuck."
Matt pulls off, mouth red and sloppy, the twisting motion of his hand not stopping. "Shut up and come."
From: Foggy Nelson
To: Marci Stahl