Teeth are my obsession really; the muse that takes shelter behind fleshy lips. Teeth are my life and livelihood. My every desperation and inner calling is answered by their glistening white snapping. Teeth are things to be treasured. Polished like precious stones and groomed like prized fur. They are magnificent, some say magical, and always deserving of awe. There was no formative incident that triggered so genuine an affection; it has been with me since I can remember.
I could be doing anything, petting the dog or playing with my little sister, and all activities would inevitably lead to exploring my periodontal predilections. I would find my fingers running across the canines of my whining companion, my fingernails clicking over her youthful molars, my mind distant and enraptured; then I would find a welt growing where my mother struck me for “going at it again.” As if this innocent curiosity was somehow dirty or erotic. I was but a child I did not think of such things! Yet I never felt the need to justify my interest, for who could deny the carnal majesty of the central incisor, or the coy beauty of bicuspids?
Being of less than average potential, my parents told me with teeth cruelly clapping with each loud decisive syllable, that dentistry was out of the question. That the education that the medical profession entailed would be quite impossible for me to accomplish.
I laughed in their faces.
I laughed with such mirth that I paraded my palatoglossal arch. With a force that sent saliva spiraling out before me in a dancing arc. I frothed with that incredible generosity born of absurdity. Within six years I had, despite my supposed lack of intelligence, defied every expectation. Brilliant they called me, but I never heard it, all that echoed in my mind were the grinding caresses and sharp compresses of my alabaster lovers.
I do love teeth.
Smile for me.