Swamy was the perfect example of a pleaser. In not so kind words, he was a butt-kisser. If his lips could find a noble behind, they were ready to do the job. He started out young. At home, the middle of five, his lips remained glued to his father’s rotund bottom. In school, always the teacher’s pet, Swamy mastered the art of gaining favors. Disgruntled with his shameless antics, his classmates smirked and sneered, wishing they too could latch on to an important backside.
But Swamy was pure genius. His lips were the hunter and unsuspecting butts his prey. His first job had him working less and butt-kissing more. His boss, his boss’s boss, the resourceful peon, the old man in accounting, the fat woman in the cafeteria, even the boss’s scrawny dog. Many evenings were spent taking the pooch for a walk, whispering sweet nothings in his ear.
Swamy built and burned bridges as he deemed fit. Pleasing the right people, discarding them when they no longer served him purpose. All was well till she came along. Swamy’s heart skipped a beat and his brain fogged up. Kissing butts was all he knew; love wasn’t on his agenda. She smiled and fluttered her eyes. He took this as a sign and praised her to the stars. Comparing her eyes to dark pools, her lips to rose petals.
She was always right and could do no wrong. If she said night was day and north was south, Swamy happily nodded along. She found it odd but thought it was love, till Swamy met her parents and smooched their behinds. They caught on to his act and told him to be gone. Swamy was shattered. Nothing to do with love. He was the butt-kissing champion. This was his first, embarrassing failure.