What a wetdown

The dry cleaner’s son’s kiss is the wettest I’ve ever known. His mouth, with its full lips and lovely white teeth behind them, was, until a minute ago, a joy to behold as it talked to me and laughed with me. But now? Descending, wide-open, upon my mouth, spilling saliva into it, and now, unwelcome, unaware, still probing for further entry, drool oozing in waves over my grimace, onto my shirt, as this newly revealed boy-beast slurps his way toward his own private ecstasy? No!
“I’ll send you the dry-cleaning bill,” I say, as I push him out the door.