American Cheese

American Cheese
K Magill


I do not love him yet
I love not knowing him
he has the pure mystique
of a grilled cheese sandwich
inside, I know, is gold

he has that utterly American allure:
redolent of Whitman and Kerouac,
of vintage Schwinns, of genuinely faded denim,
glowing diners, dim bohemian cafés,
the yellow double-stripe
down the center of the highway

but American allure
is not American at all.

it is the absence of allegiance
that intrigues me: his past
as I imagine it
is filled with labor unions, zydeco,
maple syrup, mailboxes,
chickenpox and mistletoe, and a woman
who makes sourdough waffles
every Saturday morning
and serves them to children
glued to the Looney Toons,
serves them with the fierce love
of a mother on the brink
of losing all her reasons why,
of drowning in the kitchen sink,
fears the morning she wakes up alone,
fears the evening she holds the receiver
and never hears a word past the dial tone--

it is the same in every home, that’s why I love him
love not-him, love the history
I read beneath his skin
America is etched into his bones
but it’s not America at all
America is an idea and what I love
is the pure warm breath and being
not his breath his being
but it’s there in him, so why not?

why not nod and smile, and say yeah,
I really dig him, maybe talk about
his eyes, because it is all there
in his eyes: brown and universal
or his smile, cause when a person smiles
the way he does it is a mirror
revealing the beautiful people
the ugly-but-sweet people
the people who sing, who fix mufflers,
who knit hats for other people’s children
these are the ones I love! the many I love!

but what if I get too close
stare too deep and idiomatically into his eyes?
in the narrow focus of infatuation
we lose our panoramic passion
we forget the we entirely
forget the bustling boulangeries
forget to read other people’s poetry
forget the grilled cheese sandwiches
(not American, but fontina, camembert, havarti!)
forget that every body has a history
beyond the flesh and bones,
but in the blood – life is circulatory!

or perhaps I’m just afraid of the plunge,
afraid the ocean will be too cold, or not cold enough.
what if we kiss and still don’t feel alive?
what if his tongue doesn’t tear the breath from my lungs?
and does it matter? in any case
it can’t go on like this, we’ll have to kiss
and say it’s good or say it’s bad,
tell people we’re in love or not-in-love

never again will we have
the intimacy we have now:
the intimacy of mystery, of distance, of imagined history
and this is why it is impossible
sitting in the coffee shop
talking to the girl behind the counter
this girl I knew in high school
who still pulls such a sweet ristretto
who thinks she’s asked me such a simple question

this is why it’s impossible to tell her
what’s up between me and this guy
because it’s not me and this guy
it’s me and the world
but it’s not me and the world
it’s the world alone all there is:
the bread and coffee
the grilled cheese sandwiches
the way the slices melt until there are no slices anymore
and I don’t feel so bad about my clumsy metaphors
because they are not mine they’re ours

I don’t want sex anymore, I tell him as he lays naked in my bed.

What do you want? he asks.

Oh. I don’t know, I reply. But I do know.

I know what I want but I’m scared to tell you for these stupid games we play between us. I don’t want sex. I don’t want fucking. But you have to know what I want if not one of those. I still want the bodily contact and the ecstasy, but in that other form, the kind called lovemaking.

There. I said it. I want to make love.

I want caresses and holding and looking deep into my eyes. I want the skies of the world in that stare, showing me you do care. I want sweet nothings of love and desire whispered in my ear as you hold me close and slowly make love to me. I want each sensation to ripple through my whole body, heart, mind, and soul, and in order to do that it takes more than sex, more than fucking. It takes inch by inch of feeling for someone, of showing your feelings for them, of being open to give and receive love.

Why do I always get the ones who can’t give or receive love? Am I projecting? Is that really me? And why do I want this love I speak of? Will it make me happy? But aren’t I supposed to be [happy] already? I guess I’ve found out that sex and fucking can only sustain me so far, can only entertain my cravings for connection so far, then I hit the wall, and it’s the Ocean I want; it’s the dam I want to break.

Bar Pick Up

I picked a warm steel mustang one night, he’s got silver hair, and eyes with no color; he babbles about the ring of power; he gently rubs his hand up and down my lower back; he sleeps on my couch, and yes, we just met. That one night at the bar our two souls flew to each other so fast, no breakdowns, just bodies bursting till dawn, up all night, yeah, drunken stupor, no control, hot sex, hotter than this little pathetic candle I’ve put on the table—my attempt at ambience. And sure, we might not know each other yet, but I could stare at him as he sleeps, he could listen to the scratch of my pen. I wonder if he wonders about me deeper than the physical, deeper than sex, than his hands on my ass, or his arms wrapped around my waist, or deeper than the way he penetrates me. But, you see, I still want more. More deep than he can penetrate—that’s just my body. I want divine leverage over this world, the whole world in his eyes as he looks at mine, the whole world to cave and groan and implode as he explodes on my heavenly belly, my heavenly body. Sure, it’s nice to be a star, but really how far can you get on pure lust pure power just pure pick-up...

over scheduled...

me on a schedule...

Empty Belly Empty Head...

What it feel like at 35...

Thirteen

What it felt like to be thirteen...

Happy me

me in big shoes...

Sometimes it still feels like playing...

Dating Chronicles - Larry summer 08

-Ladies

You might be happy to hear that I’m moving on from the non-committal germ-a-phoebe John #1 and am again actively dating new and better/different prospects.  Still, much to my detriment, I seem to have an innate repulsion for men that would be good faithful hard working (albeit in my opinion boring maybe?) husband/father material and have just defunct the budding courtship with honest “nice” tall John #2. With that said, I have to tell you about tonight’s crazy date whom I met at the mechanics.  When he pulled up behind me in the exact same make and color as my car we instantly bonded and began the rant about our mutual lemons.  This lead to talk of even the carpet being crap, which lead to glances in each others cars.  Here I noticed his unusual tallness as he bent in to see my paintings.  The conversation ended awkwardly when I asked how tall he was and he glanced down muttering, “Tall”.  I touched his arm and sang, “Don’t you know girls like tall boys?” Then I said, see ya around and drove away wondering.... 

A few days later I was surprised to find his card in my mailbox with a little note saying he was interested in seeing my art work! He must have recognized my car from the road.  AHHHH and clever girl that I am, was not that easily foiled by his coy attempt to get at these gorgeous breasts through flattery.  So, I did the only thing I could and I called him leaving a message that said, “Hey forget the art and take me to dinner you sexy beast!” Oh yea – I did. Needless to say I missed him before heading out last week for one last Philly cheese steak and to give tall Johnny #1 one last opportunity to declare his unfaltering love and devotion to me – anyway the cheese steak was good. 

So new name {Larry} new set of eccentricities — Bring it on! 

Ok -so he's much TALLER and older then I remembered him being when we first met.  I thought it would be impolite to ask his age, and I’m no carnie - but I’d put him at about 50+. I did however deem it appropriate to ask his height, three or for times in fact because he actually thought I’d stop asking if he kept ignoring me. OMG I NEVER though I’d say this but – he might actually be too tall. He’s over 6’9”!!!!!!- My toes cramped from trying to reach him, my neck creaked from looking up, and people actually stared at us much like a free sideshow attraction- and there was also this looking up at daddy thing goin’ on – I Know Yikes.

  I was surprisingly relaxed during dinner, conversation was light and easy and his eyes were kind and adoring.  We walked to the small independent movie theater and he wrapped his arm around me during the film.  It felt good.  Later we have this insanely beguiling moment when; we walk into the swanky local lounge just at the moment the Jazz band finishes their set, to which everyone starts applauding enthusiastically.  Without skipping a beat my very tall date waves off the crowd and says, "No really you're too much!"  Every one claps again, this time for him and we all laugh loud and over indulgently because well…it’s late and we’re all cocked. Dead grandma jokes could be just as funny at this point - but I don't care about the circumstance or condition of these patrons.  As the women stare and the fella’s reach to give him high-fives (certainly trying to touch his instant essence du rock star) I am just ear-to-ear giddy-grin-DeliGHTeD that this handsome confident man who has just made a whole bar squeal in unabashed laughter, is walkin’ in with moi. (This is how they get us- we don’t fall in love with them because they are brilliant and adorable and charismatic it is how all those things make us feel so equally important because they choose to be with us. – Ok maybe that’s a bunch of sheosophical mumbojumbo but it does make sense in that nonsensical way – Or another thought: I may be just egocentric- it is after all - all about me here in me-me-World! )

Then I take him to my place and we sit out in the back yard, by the fire he makes. He's super confident and charming and even serenades me with my guitar making up these adorable adlibbed songs about the stars and moon and my cuteness and the sweet wine we sip (or in my case, gulp- his singing more romantic by the glass).

AND then we skip forward to the sucking and blowing portion of the date– umm…both exciting and distractingly weird! (and I feel a need to clarify that none of this titillation was provoked from or by me- in fact I participated, although it seemed unnoticed by the other party, very little) Oh yeah and I Mussst fill you in about the strange gaping bass mouth kissing (in fact I’m still not sure if I was kissing or spelunking- or maybe we were playing a clever little game of hide and seek- where are your lips, is that your tonsil - opps there’s your teeth- am I anywhere near your mouth or- no I believe I have stumbled into the bat cave.) There was also the subhuman and over zealous grunting, slurping (?) and yumming sounds! 

No we never actually had sex - or anything like it – still I’ll divulge for your morbid vicarious pleasure that, although the right one is feeling shamefully ignored, my left breast is still quivering in stimulated delight. 

He made plans for us to see each other again tomorrow and promised, or threatened depending on how you look at it, that there is more of “that” where it came from.  Eweoouweeee, I feel both terrified and still grossly curious (kinda like when you accidentally smell something a little pungent, a sour shoe perhaps and even though you don’t want or need to- you are inexplicably compelled to take another nasal gander.) 

Oh god and then I did the unthinkable "crazy girl" never on a first date grill that went something like, “Gee your kinda old {well that part was in my head} so you’ve never thought about having kids?"  ACKKK take it back- take it back- too late to retract - Still, more surprising was his answer:

“The only regret I maybe have is that I never froze my sperm or donated it so that at least I knew maybe there were some of my kids floating around out there somewhere.”

AHHHHH – what the F. U. C. K …kinda bizarre cliché answer is that {Cave man voice}: “MMMM MUST SPREAD SEED/ MAKE OFFSPRING -THEY WORK FIELD OR ME EAT THEM IF NOT ENOUGH CROP.”  Then realization- wait- that was weird (cave men didn’t farm) no this was weird: frozen sperm? - does that mean he can’t have kids?  He is a tennis pro- eeeeegads- freak accident perhaps?  Stray ball to the balls?  Wait there’s no way one ball hit him in both balls and no way two balls on separate occasions hit him in each of his balls. Ok now I’m just getting ridiculous. So yeah, that was floating out there with the answers to too many other questions I shouldn’t have bothered to asked considering that;

A)    he’s going back to Florida in a few weeks,

 b)     he’s  too old for me and has never been married (yeah I asked that one too- mmmm ‘nother noncommittal- Sign me up!)

C)     makes too many sexually derived advances and innuendoes (just trust me on this one)

D)     makes far too many, non-sexually derived, orgasmic sounds,

E)     wears an adorable (and just in case you didn’t catch that, let me be sure to emphasize the sarcastic tone in the word adorable) little silver “friendship” pinky ring from a previous girl “friend”.  

And last but not least, the thought of having to kiss that gargantuan mouth, while strenuously balancing on tippi-toes trying not to fall into the black hole while simultaneously answering questions like;“Do you like that?” and “What do you want me to do for you?” and “Why are you smiling?” absolutely overwhelms me.  I just can’t spelunk, balance, think, and lie, all at the same time.

Larry, one last side tangent – We all (except for those extreme feminist bitches who are ruining it for us gold digging ladies who actually contrary to popular belief think staying at home drinking wine coolers in our bathrobes whilst choosing {key word here-choosing} to watch Oprah and or Dr. Phil, sounds pretty damn good at this point) hope and kinda expect a guy to at least pay for the first date dinner (if not get down on one knee and propose the whole fairy-tale: kids, picket fence, to respect and support us with the option to work in desired field or per chance if we should decide on the aforementioned scenario outlined above, they would agreeably support us financially in whatever capacity endeavors and activities we choose {btw you can’t see my face obviously, but I can feel my lips curling up into a grin much like the Grinch- and I’m not certain, but I feels a smidgen devilish- this could very well be the point where I start slipping into real madness). Back on track- so Of COURSE, you have to pay for that first date dinner – call it etiquette, respect, chivalry, tradition, an attempt to get laid- whatever- You have to do it. Otherwise you just seem cheep, tacky, broke, inconsiderate, poor, uninterested, did I say no job???? (you staying home watching Oprah DOES NOT fit into the “fairy-tale”)

We are usually, cool with the “Hey I’m going to get dinner, but I’ll let you get drinks later” deal. That seems fair- let you do the big dinner and be the “Man”.  By allowing you to pay we allow you to do something nice for us- show us you care - and we get to say, hey I’m a fair and independent girl who likes to be taken care of and who also like’s to take care of others as well.  This also let’s us feel like we don’t owe you anything, and that we are capable and willing to contribute to the expenses of the night and possibly the “relationship”.  Well I was cool with the “drinks after” gig  – THAT IS UNTIL TONIGHT!!!  I realized like an A.hole – Hey whoha – THAT IS NOT A BETTER DEAL –especially when dinner was $22 (including tip) and drink becomes Drink(s), desert, coffee, and sometimes a movie. WTF!!!! Next time I'm paying for dinner and you can bet I won’t be in the parking lot waiting for the circus to come back to town.   

Coffee me..

Headless me..

Is it me or is my head missing?

Years Later

Years Later

 

With so many other

girls around, it was

flattering

 

He was different, exciting

he made me feel

wanted, attractive

 

Years later I can

barely remember all of the things we did

with friends

 

Years later I can

vividly remember  the few things we did

by ourselves

 

When I think back

I wonder

did anyone know?

did everyone know?  

Wrong

Wrong

 

I remember the soft feel

of his facial hair

brushing past my cheek

 

& his low voice whispering

naughty things

against my ear

 

I remember his eager

hands pulling at

my clothes

 

& his clumsy

tongue in

my mouth

 

I remember his legs

quivering as I held on

to his big dick

 

& the day he said

this was wrong,

for both of us

 

 

 

me as christ a clause...

Happy Holidays :-) Purge and plump and spend and repent....

Marilyn Sokol, Brodway baby

"Housework is like bad sex. Every time I do it I swear I will never do it again. Until the next time company comes."