Figures
It was one of these days...weeks…months…years…when the overwhelming evidence of life really being a joke hit me faster than I could typically lie to myself, rationalize, and say, “I think I finally have this figured out.” –but then I found that I don’t. So I said “Fuck it” and floated off my brain into another time and space to find my friend for her comfort, time, and familiar face. We went to Leona’s, you see—
it’s where we go when trekking to tasty food is out of our realm of feasibility.
By all means set to bitch about having bitten my tongue and bartered my way through life’s lengthy line, with buttkis to believe in, suddenly you appeared to me, skipped ten beats in my heart, and for the first time in a while I thought my life was about to start. “Oh yeah,” I said; “Bring it On!” and went from feeling filthy frustrated to fabulous faggot in five fucking seconds flat.
Blatantly hoping you’d buy into what I wanted bought, I made sure you connected my companion to lecherous lesbianism. I made clear you knew she had her salt lick at home with luck laying waiting for licking. At dinner’s end—what did I eat I wonder—I grabbed a doily and wrote what I wanted witty: If I were cheap and sleazy, I’d leave you my phone number” then, reversed to the randy side, “Maybe just a little around the edges.” My number written on doily dead center—bam, boy begotten.
Forgotten you were until I realized you appeared February 28th. At work chewing clandestine candy cautiously while clients sulked in sullen stupidity, I thought of the open mic I finished. My words wove around woeful self pity about February being my magical month for love. The whole blasted month was blessedly barren but for our fated Friday, the 28th. Cosmic crush construction can’t be contrived.
At Leona’s, later, lustful, and languid, I finagled finding you again. I sat down, saw you with tables to attend to, and with me to notice. I pretty packaged myself pretty well; I was the summation of all sexy skin, ravishing in red, bold in black, pining in pin stripes, wanting waiting watching. You brought me a drink, setting into substance my next subject of conversation. A pause, a response; Yes, you would drink with me that night. Glory alleluia, thanks be to God, let’s speak in tongues. Oooh Tongues.
How flagrantly forward you were! For hours your ferocious body language attempted to obliterate me, overwhelm me, ostracize me form our—your—conversation. During drinks I waited for my words once so well rehearsed, but whose perfection, poise, and posture wandered away while I watched your eyes. Like a lap dog I performed and paid premeditated compliments on your eyes, smile, luxuriously alluring chest hair, but mostly your eyes, those orbs of beauty, the antithesis of all that is Average Honkey and Bitch. Utterly unique, those eyes hewn from ebony, inlaid with onyx, set in torturous temptation.
We ascended Granville in Grand Style, your arms wrapped warm around me on the escalator, my lips pressed against yours—instinctively locating home. Kissed blind, we stood under the heat lamps through three full cycles at 2am; three trains passed, on the coldest day of the month. I kissed you French, called you mon chamade magnifique, purred into your year, nuzzled against your fur. After 47 minutes of crisp Kelvin kisses, I pulled you into the fourth train. In its heat I found the heat of your face. We continued our languorous lip lock, you muttered “your stop” I grunted agreement. We got off at yours, where we stood for two more trains to pass. I stood for stability, I stood for you, I stood for us; your legs both wrapped around my hips. With dedication I discovered you wore no underwear; my two fingers touched you, frantically felt you taught and tender. Locked in this embrace of pulsating frenzy, your head tilted to the left, my fingers tilted into angles I can’t readily recreate, we annihilated everything around us, ensconced in consumption of convergent climax. “Uh, Excuse Me! Which way north and which way south?” The voice of a derelict man entered our vacuum. You broke free from my mouth, tersely stated “That way—south. That way—north,” then resumed. You multi-tasker.
Multi-tasking, though popular with corporate society, becomes difficult in life, becomes a difficulty to juggle, becomes a rut difficult to break. While I was busy experiencing electrification, you were busy eradicating me, the unexpected event, erasing me from your mind so your world would return to normal. I prepared to invite you into my life, implode on you, my impossible craving. The emptiness I had force fed full of rationalizations and justifications and proverbs and cynicism; yes this emptiness decided to contract and through my body coursed the negative energy in positive reverse. I turned you into a religion, stopped resenting the perpetually engaged. I smiled at work. I sang songs about thirteen men and me the only girl in town openly operatic on the train. I relived our moments, relieved at not having defiled my slowly smothered scruples. I crooned on crested butte, but to you my croon was but an echo, weakening as destined distance decried.
You taught me this tragically when you thrust me trembling against an alley wall, introducing me to your throat. You defied Ms Manners and talked with your mouthful; you looked up, misty eyed from the gag reflex, and whispered “You’re so sweet.” With feverish fanaticism you finished and fiendishly wiped your face on my coat. Instead of feeling vehemently vanquished and victoriously virile I vainly envisioned the vexation on my dry cleaner’s face. You smiled sweetly and sumptuously, then secretly scaled the stairs to your studio, and left me silently sentimental.
it’s where we go when trekking to tasty food is out of our realm of feasibility.
By all means set to bitch about having bitten my tongue and bartered my way through life’s lengthy line, with buttkis to believe in, suddenly you appeared to me, skipped ten beats in my heart, and for the first time in a while I thought my life was about to start. “Oh yeah,” I said; “Bring it On!” and went from feeling filthy frustrated to fabulous faggot in five fucking seconds flat.
Blatantly hoping you’d buy into what I wanted bought, I made sure you connected my companion to lecherous lesbianism. I made clear you knew she had her salt lick at home with luck laying waiting for licking. At dinner’s end—what did I eat I wonder—I grabbed a doily and wrote what I wanted witty: If I were cheap and sleazy, I’d leave you my phone number” then, reversed to the randy side, “Maybe just a little around the edges.” My number written on doily dead center—bam, boy begotten.
Forgotten you were until I realized you appeared February 28th. At work chewing clandestine candy cautiously while clients sulked in sullen stupidity, I thought of the open mic I finished. My words wove around woeful self pity about February being my magical month for love. The whole blasted month was blessedly barren but for our fated Friday, the 28th. Cosmic crush construction can’t be contrived.
At Leona’s, later, lustful, and languid, I finagled finding you again. I sat down, saw you with tables to attend to, and with me to notice. I pretty packaged myself pretty well; I was the summation of all sexy skin, ravishing in red, bold in black, pining in pin stripes, wanting waiting watching. You brought me a drink, setting into substance my next subject of conversation. A pause, a response; Yes, you would drink with me that night. Glory alleluia, thanks be to God, let’s speak in tongues. Oooh Tongues.
How flagrantly forward you were! For hours your ferocious body language attempted to obliterate me, overwhelm me, ostracize me form our—your—conversation. During drinks I waited for my words once so well rehearsed, but whose perfection, poise, and posture wandered away while I watched your eyes. Like a lap dog I performed and paid premeditated compliments on your eyes, smile, luxuriously alluring chest hair, but mostly your eyes, those orbs of beauty, the antithesis of all that is Average Honkey and Bitch. Utterly unique, those eyes hewn from ebony, inlaid with onyx, set in torturous temptation.
We ascended Granville in Grand Style, your arms wrapped warm around me on the escalator, my lips pressed against yours—instinctively locating home. Kissed blind, we stood under the heat lamps through three full cycles at 2am; three trains passed, on the coldest day of the month. I kissed you French, called you mon chamade magnifique, purred into your year, nuzzled against your fur. After 47 minutes of crisp Kelvin kisses, I pulled you into the fourth train. In its heat I found the heat of your face. We continued our languorous lip lock, you muttered “your stop” I grunted agreement. We got off at yours, where we stood for two more trains to pass. I stood for stability, I stood for you, I stood for us; your legs both wrapped around my hips. With dedication I discovered you wore no underwear; my two fingers touched you, frantically felt you taught and tender. Locked in this embrace of pulsating frenzy, your head tilted to the left, my fingers tilted into angles I can’t readily recreate, we annihilated everything around us, ensconced in consumption of convergent climax. “Uh, Excuse Me! Which way north and which way south?” The voice of a derelict man entered our vacuum. You broke free from my mouth, tersely stated “That way—south. That way—north,” then resumed. You multi-tasker.
Multi-tasking, though popular with corporate society, becomes difficult in life, becomes a difficulty to juggle, becomes a rut difficult to break. While I was busy experiencing electrification, you were busy eradicating me, the unexpected event, erasing me from your mind so your world would return to normal. I prepared to invite you into my life, implode on you, my impossible craving. The emptiness I had force fed full of rationalizations and justifications and proverbs and cynicism; yes this emptiness decided to contract and through my body coursed the negative energy in positive reverse. I turned you into a religion, stopped resenting the perpetually engaged. I smiled at work. I sang songs about thirteen men and me the only girl in town openly operatic on the train. I relived our moments, relieved at not having defiled my slowly smothered scruples. I crooned on crested butte, but to you my croon was but an echo, weakening as destined distance decried.
You taught me this tragically when you thrust me trembling against an alley wall, introducing me to your throat. You defied Ms Manners and talked with your mouthful; you looked up, misty eyed from the gag reflex, and whispered “You’re so sweet.” With feverish fanaticism you finished and fiendishly wiped your face on my coat. Instead of feeling vehemently vanquished and victoriously virile I vainly envisioned the vexation on my dry cleaner’s face. You smiled sweetly and sumptuously, then secretly scaled the stairs to your studio, and left me silently sentimental.
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