Cocktail

Cock—tail, a game as old as any, probably started the same day that one about prostitution being the oldest profession did. I wonder what Margaret, the lesbian, gender studies, and college enforcer of anything racial, sexist or bilingual would have to say about women being considered prostitutes rather than e-quails?

Molotov--cocktail, that blue agave tequila the cowgirl tending to the Saturday night rowdy at the Lamplighter just had an especially strong feeling that I would just LOVE it! (said something about being able to tell just by looking at me—cool, like her) and pushes me a spilling-over, first, free-shot to chase my traditional salty dog.

A Sabbath Day bat to the cranium, a hollow thumping of the sunny-day-world going on around you and your attempt at not moving more than an inch while simultaneously pining for nothing more than to be able to stand happily, yawn without threat of running to the porcelain piss-hole, to just stand—to pull on your jeans and be able to meet the day.

Even the lawn-mower, if it were you not ill, filled to the top with spring water you’d be happily buzzing along the sidewalk, unapologetically blowing up gopher mounds as girls in white shorts walk by. But instead you can’t understand why the neighbor is taking so many extra turns with his new Sears Craftsman? And, why has he let it sputter out only to restart it three times? Each pause just enough that you go back into the anxiety dream about how you just let that guy you barely know stick his hand under your tights and dig around for something he can smell later.

Cock—tease. Again, another issue for Margaret. Like, you bitch! You teased up his circumcised, four and a half inch cobra, half limp at fifty, a weasel who teases, a Woman old enough to still sport a 1970’s muff and “NO!,” she was not one of those old ladies with a daisy-shaved bald mound, purple and curtained labial-lips much too big to match the fifteen-year-old, pin-up, rapist goal he pictured before telling her how sexy it’d be if she did shave herself there—just a little less woman Please!

The problem is, there’s a real reason fur hashtagmetoo! when you find out this last scenario of shaving was all of what he was dreaming up in his own head when he saw you, (or someone else) the way he slid his arm around your waist just before the elevator door opened, as if he his magic was opening it for you! His co-worker that one time in a red dress because she wasn’t going to have time to go home and change after work before getting to the literary cocktail party across town.

But, that day’s imaginings, for her, included this one and nothing about her co-worker with his habitual nacho cheese breath, “The cock’s there will surely be three wise-crack-men over seventy-six and the other all, if there are any, two decades younger, gay or paired.

"I’ll take a bourbon Manhattan, the preserved cherry sunk."

Photo Credit: Ash Edmonds/unsplash