Reading for a Book Contest
Everyone knows it's not easy to fall in love. You can't just go out in the streets and shout, You.
You look like a nice guy. How about a turn in the sack? And expect he'll be just the right fit. A one-size-fits-all kind of guy. (There are so few out there. Have you noticed?) But that's exactly what I do. And so many things go wrong. How can I explain?
The first one I meet is one of those women who looks so
nice. How can I resist? I think.
And I've lucked out so soon.
Before I know it, she's taking me to her room, dimming the lights. I can almost taste her lips when she starts
talking without pausing for breath. She talks all night. She wants to tell me everything about her
life. (Don't you hate a woman who talks
in bed?) It's like sleeping in an
aviary, her sweet voice filling my night.
The second is a guy who has never gotten laid. But just looking at him, I know one day he'll be great. (I'm psychic about a man's future with sex.) He'll be a regular Napoleon in bed. (And it's not true what they said about Napoleon's penis, by the way.) But tonight this man is so eager, he hasn't even bothered to put his body on right. He has his hands in his eye sockets, his shoes on his ears, and a penis stuck to the back of his head. I want to shout look in the mirror for Christ's sake. But instead I admire his body parts. Oh yes, I want to say. Yes, yes, yes! But I don't.
The third is one those real poets. You know the type. Even in bed I can picture him at the podium
with his glasses and manuscript in hand.
He's the guy who thinks about having sex so much, he has theoretical
sex. And there are just so many theories
to consider. There's Hegelian sex with
its theses, antitheses, syntheses.
Pascalian sex: he had it once with an god, and it has never been the
same since. Or Plato's sex. Of course Plato never had sex. But his shadow did.
It's only when I'm ready to give up that I notice the woman in the corner wearing a plain black dress. (Why do poets always where those little black gowns with pumps and fishnets?) She has such nice legs, I think. And soon I can tell she's wearing nothing underneath. I'm slipping off her covers in hopes that she feels as good on the inside as she looks on the surface. It's always such a wonderful relief to find a winner in end. To say please and ah and mmmmm. To breathe deep and relax at last.
-- Nin Andrews