Insinuendo

I knew I was on to something good that night I first met you, when you told me you dyed your pubis to get the grey out of there.

We were attending my favorite summer concert series, Reggae Cumsplash- you were standing amongst those lavender ladies waving their peacock fans, enshrouded by men who would forget their love for women if they did not constantly holler and catcall after them as they maneuvered through the crowds. (It’s unnerving to think just how fucked up this shit pit of a city would be without legalized abortion, isn’t it?) When I first set eyes upon you I realized it was time to emerge from my flaccid world of flaccidity, from that room at home where I constantly handle my hose, to take a chance, to converse with you. And during these discussions you made me feel like the cock of the walk- one who truly should be bred to the finest stock.

On our first date I exposed myself to you on multiple levels. With your cubist nose, your elfin boots and your fantastic tales I found myself wanting to cling to your utters like a calf. Soon you would feel the pulsating Pegasus in my pantaloons and we’d adjourn to an abandoned, cushion-less couch in the alleyway, to the subway, where a stray high heel had worked its way onto the tracks, and to the park, where we’d incorporate a discarded, half-yard long summer sausage found on the grounds into our coital frenzy.

And tonight, as I await your arrival, I have wiped all the excess hair off of my toilet and amassed innumerable improperly chilled wines in the greatest of anticipations. As you commence to toe my genitals beneath the kitchen table I shall ask that you please pause so I might dash to the wardrobe. I will re-emerge from my chambers with a cabbage leaf, threaded through a rubber band, obscuring my privates- a lubricated goat at my side. While grooming your vainglorious crotch mop with my tongue I will listen on as you sporadically mutter, ‘oil my taint,’ in feigned ecstatic misery. You are licking my lesions, swimming in my chest hair- my serpent, my drawn Beretta throbbing in your hands. Upon taking my dangling participle between your lips you shall notice strange fluids leaking from my suspicious package. Suddenly, a light spray of tzatziki materializes- almost magically- across your breasts. After this evening, my sweet, I am most certain you will refer to me as your twelve amp, three hundred gigahertz, thousand kilowatt lover.

Our affections shall be the stuff of legend, my darling. A wonder of nature, miraculous anomaly- like how my friend’s penis went digital in ’89- it’s been pixilated ever since- or how just one letter separates rectal from recital. Epics will be composed regarding our ardor, for what’s more in this life than love?

- Dan Gleason