Thursday, March 24, 2011


The text came in around 7PM on Sunday. “I miss you,” he said, and some other well- chosen words to make me get all warm and fuzzy inside my vag*na. “Time for a little glass half empty,” my brother turned to me, knocking off my rose colored glasses in the process. Still, I was trying to think what panties I had put on before I went out for the evening should the evening take an interesting turn. It seems I spent the entire year turning down sex. Repeated home visits from the 25 year old that I eventually had to terminate, constant come-ons from Cal who finally said he loved me after 10 years, then took someone else out for dinner the following Friday. Nothing made me feel stronger than turning down sex with men who do nothing to deserve it - but by Spring I realized that not putting out equals not getting anything in and “it” was reaching its breaking point. Simple eye contact with a nice looking guy on Henry Street drove an electric current from between my legs, up my body, and escaped as blue smoke from the top of my head. Biology was winning this battle - what's a girl to do.

The biggest, shiniest, newest Harley I’d ever seen was parked in front of the diner. Cal was coming to meet me, but I wondered who was steering this ship. The biker appeared, rounding the corner – goatee, cafĂ© racer jacket, about 5’9” – he was quick to engage over his beast of a bike. Daytona, cross-country trips, year round road warrior, blah, blah, blah. I saw Cal out of the corner of my eye head into the diner, and it made me realize what the pint sized biker on the monster Harley was missing. He had not stopped talking since he walked up, hadn’t paused to ask a question, hadn’t taken a breath to hear my clever retorts. Cal was waiting inside the diner for me, he would ask me what I’d been up to, what I thought about things, he actually gave a hoot. This little conversationalist could never stroke me between the ears, surely he'd have a heck of a time reaching other bits of my anatomy.

Seems it's time for Spring cleaning. Out go the rose colored glasses. All mixed messages tossed in the trash. Oh, and no sex for solillaquists – toot your own horn! All clowns, the lot of ‘em. And that thing they say about men who wear big shoes - behind that big bulge is a lot of hot air – hardly what a girl needs to get the job done right.