PDA: Too Much Tongue, Nowhere to Run
PDA: Too Much Tongue, Nowhere to Run
Your narrator is trapped. Not physically, but emotionally, spiritually, existentially—because the PDA around them is unbearable. Maybe they’re on a crowded bus, forced to witness an epic, slow-motion makeout session. Maybe they’re in class, sitting next to the couple who won’t stop whispering sweet nothings during a lecture on the Cold War. Maybe they’re in space, floating weightlessly while two astronauts hold hands through their gloves, and it’s somehow the most disgusting thing they’ve ever seen.
Describe the setting, the torturous intimacy unfolding, and most importantly, the narrator’s reaction. Are they disgusted? Jealous? Completely numb to it at this point? Are they forced to intervene?
Lean into the discomfort. The narrator doesn’t have to be right—they just have to be suffering.
Use strong sensory details. The sound of lips separating. The whispered giggles. The absolute gall of someone stroking a lover’s cheek in broad daylight.
Make it weird. PDA can be gross, but it can also be bizarre—who makes direct eye contact while kissing? Why is there so much synchronized breathing?
Make the setting matter. A public bus? A funeral? A hostage situation? Context makes the agony worse.
The narrator must be trapped in some way (socially, physically, situationally).
The PDA must be unavoidable. No polite looking away. No escape.
The narrator must have a clear reaction—whether it’s annoyance, horror, fascination, or despair.
The PDA must be described with painful clarity.
A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again by David Foster Wallace (for hyper-detailed, overly self-aware suffering)
My Misspent Youth by Meghan Daum (for social discomfort and painfully observant narration)
Any Twitter rant about bad subway behavior
The walk from the staff lounge microwave to my classroom is not far. Perhaps 150 feet. But in that cursed stretch between the B-building and whatever circle of hell public education has reserved for public romance, I witnessed something that may haunt the recesses of my vision for weeks.
Two students, who shall remain nameless, faceless, fused, sat on a bench, locked in a rhythmic struggle that could only be described as rabid chicken cosplay. It was all beak and tongue, sharp head movements and the occasional unsettling moan like they were auditioning for a student film titled The Last Gasp of Decency. I had just reheated my tofu stir-fry. It smelled like hope. Now it smells like defeat.
There was nowhere to turn. The bench was placed right in my path to my classroom. I, humble, hungry, helpless, was forced to sidestep past them as they performed their saccharine exorcism against the cinderblock wall. I thought of my cat, Odie. I thought of collecting his urine, bottling it, and becoming the world's first Anti-PDA Vigilante. A single spritz, a hiss, and a calm “No.” Like a training session, but for the over-affectionate and emotionally unstable.
I fantasized about founding a club: The Fellowship of the Foldable Chair. We’d patrol campus with collapsible seats and microwavable popcorn, silently setting up camp around public makeout sessions. Just watching. Just smiling. Until eye contact was made. But what if that makes it worse? What if they feed on shame like emotional vampires?
I threw away my lunch. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I went back to my classroom in silence, the scent of stir-fry clinging to my shirt like the memory of a life once lived.