Sore throat (and other related sexiness)

Those of you with bad eyesight certainly know that, when making out, you can only wear your eyeglasses for so long. After 5 minutes they just get in the way. At which point your kissing partner removes them, and you in turn pray he puts them down somewhere where they don't get sat on.

Sunday-night man and I engaged in this sort of exchange on Monday night. At the designated moment he put my glasses on a coffee table where they were, indeed, never in danger of being smushed. All well and good. But, as we said goodnight a few hours later, he remarked:

"You are just so different when you take your glasses off!  It's not like you're even the same person."

I've been parsing this sentiment to make sure I understand his definition of "different."  My wearing glasses and my attitude/look/behavior while wearing them was enough to get us to the point of making out. At which point he took them off me. After which we made out a lot longer.

Which half of different was the good half?

Meanwhile, you recall I lost my voice between Sunday night and Monday morning -- a combination of fatigue and overuse. By Monday night I was working with very little vocal tone. Since Sunday-night Man and I were planning to meet at a potentially noisy restaurant, I texted him ahead of time:

"I have to warn you ... I sound a little like a crank phone call heavy breather ..."

To which he replied:

"That's hot!!"

(Thank you for the double exclamation!!)

The date was not without some resulting conversational awkwardness: he leaned in and asked me to repeat just about every sentence. But halfway through our meal he leaned back, smiled, and confessed that, indeed, he found the gruff tone of my voice "sexy."

Good man. I felt like crap, but he knew how to turn it to both of our advantages.

Meanwhile, in another boy-related (but otherwise unrelated) incident:  Balint gave me a ride home from a church meeting Tuesday night.  For most of the 10 minutes this took, I coughed the unceasing dry cough of the dead. And whenever I would try to respond to something in the conversation, I either squeaked or sounded like Barry White. Balint initially ignored this ... until we pulled up and double-parked in front of my place.

B:  You sound horrible.
K:  God, I know. I'm sorry.

Pause. Turn. Look.

B:  Although, you know... your voice like that makes you sound kind of vulnerable and sexy. Like you need taking care of.

And then he said he felt like getting a beer. I knew I had PBR in the fridge. So I told him to park the car and come in so we could have some. We had the best conversation we've had in months.

Hmm. Maybe I need to keep this lost voice around permanently.