This particular boy was good at spitting.

It’s not the sloppy sort of spitting, but rather a very accurate, and target hitting type, something that he’s somehow learned to do. He would pucker his lips, spit, and it would be right on target.

But for someone as good-looking as him, surely there was something out there that’s more suitable for him to practice besides spitting. But he simply never gets tired of it.

Whenever a girl that he finds attractive walks by, he’d pucker his lips, and launch a long-distance spit bullet her way, marking the girl’s skirt. The boys that see this would laugh and cheer while the girls have no idea of what happened, so they’d glare at them and walk away briskly.

“What you are doing, it’s a little rude to the girls,” I said.

“So what? It’s not like it’ll get them pregnant,” he answered.

“Aren’t you doing this because you like them? Then why make them angry?” I asked.

“Did they get angry? Maybe they really liked it? Why don’t you see for yourself—”

Then, he spat towards me with a “shoop” sound, and it hit me squarely in the chest.”

“This is my first time giving it to a boy,” he said.