I’ve been sitting on this story for a little while now, waiting for the right time to tell it. And with the NFL season rapidly approaching, I figured now is as good a time as any. Here is the story of the time I kissed Haloti Ngata.
Last year, I can’t remember exact dates but somewhere in the middle of the NFL season, I took my first ever trip to Detroit. As many of you don’t know, I didn’t get my drivers license until I was 22 years old, so naturally I’m a car fanatic. You know, the ones with wheels, the ones with engines, you name it. And because of that deep-rooted love, I booked a trip to Motor City to see some motors and stuff.
It was there, in a little hole-in-the-wall diner that I first laid eyes on Haloti Ngata. He was a mountain of a man, 6’4″ and 320 pounds of unadulterated sex appeal. I was surprised that he was alone, but figured the rest of his family were either asleep, or somewhere a lot warmer than Detroit. I was minding my own business, sucking on corned beefed hash in between recalibrating carburetors, or whatever.
After a few more bites of wheat toast and hash, I finally mustered up enough courage to go over to Haloti and ask for an autograph. “Excuse me, Mr. Ngata,” I said, with boyish charm and ketchup smeared all over my face, “would you please sign my chest and dot the “i” with my nipple?” Haloti looked up from his 22 hard boiled eggs. I was shaking like several leaves. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said.
So there we were, a giant Tongan-American NFL lineman and a pre-pubesciant 25 year old Boston boy, two lovers who found each other in the most hopeless of places.
Haloti and I sat and conversated for what felt like an eternity. He told me about how he didn’t love football at all, that his real passion table tennis, but that all his friends growing up body-shamed his gargantuan quads that would burst his skin-tight shorts at the seams. I let him in on my secrets as well, like the time in 3rd grade when I found lipstick in the top drawer of Mr. White’s desk in homeroom, and coated my lips with it, insisting that I was the prettiest girl in the whole wide world. Haloti and I played footsies the whole time.
And then, like a comet shooting past earth, our time together flamed out. Haloti said he had to go back to his wife and three children. I agreed, albeit reluctantly, and told him that it was for the best, as I too needed to leave and go stick my hands inside of mufflers like all good car-guys do.
Haloti and I walked out of the diner and into the brisk Michigan air. We stood there waiting for my uber, not saying a word, the sadness of our eminent departure overtaking the happiness we had shared in the diner. My uber arrived. I bid Haloti farewell and said I would never forget the time we spent together. And then, just as I turned to enter the uber, with a single tear rolling down my rosy cheek, Haloti grabbed me and lifted me into his wide, musclebound arms, and kissed me on the lips with the passion of a billion burning suns.
And that was the time I kissed Haloti Ngata.
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