Boy Meets Girl

Boy meets girl.

Boy asks girl for a date.

Boy    seduces girl.

Boy and girl participate in

undone-undie,

under the cover,    

   unadulterated,

      unprotected    sex.

Boy oh boy.

Boy and girl have sex again.   

And again.

Repeat.     Repeat.    Repeat.

Boy and girl are mighty damn frisky,

   if you get my    meaning.

Boy somehow manages to impregnate girl.

Boy does the right thing.

Boy pauses and thinks to himself,

“Who the hell come up with that phrase

‘Does the right thing’?”

Boy figures, “Alright,   fine.

Such is my lot in life, and

there’s not a damn thing I can do about it,

um… ‘cept ponder whether

   the person who coined

“Such is my lot in life” is the

same pecker-head who came up with

the guilt inducing sentence of

   “Do the right thing.”

Okay, now hold on!

This whole morality play of words

is obviously from a

male’s pointy head of view.

That’s not romance.

Let’s let a woman tell the story.

Um… Girl meets boy at bowling alley.

Girl finds boy cute in a

whimpering puppy what needs

a bit of cuddle    sort of way.

Hey!    I ain’t tellin’ the story.    

She is.     She found him cute.     

Go figure.

They spoon.

They swoon.

They croon.

They serenade beneath the moon.

They    swap    some     spit.

He asks if he might be able

to see her the following night.

Giddy with anticipation,

she says “Oh, yes.”

And there that following night

he picks her up and right off the bat

asks if it’s okay to go back to his place.

Rewind.        Re-roll.

Giddy with anticipation,    “Oh, yes.”

Now wait a second.

In chapter three, page sixty-two,

sub-paragraph four of

the woman’s field manual on

sexual relations with a male homo sapiens,

doesn’t it openly state that you are

never suppose to go to the fella’s pad

   on the very first date?

I guess her copy had a few pages ripped out.

Girl meets boy.

Girl ends up on boys couch.

Someone’s tongue ends up

in someone else’s mouth.

Don’t know whose.

Hey. She’s telling this story.

Not me.

He interrupts their   moment of passion

and excuses himself to the kitchen.

From where she’s sitting on the couch

she can see him digging around

   in the refrigerator.

Shortly, he closes the door

and vanishes down a hallway

to pass into view through an adjacent door

before disappearing into his bathroom.

And he’s in there a long time.

A    very long time.

She studies the ceiling;

the wallpaper;    the curtains;

the watermarks on the coffee table.

Presently the door opens

and he strolls across the carpet

to plop down beside her and

ease into her embrace

as if he’d never left.

And there again,

just as their passion reaches its crescendo,

he stands, pardons himself

and heads for the kitchen.

There again, his head in the fridge.

There again, the walk down the hall.

There again the open, close and click

   of the bathroom’s latch.

To her utter amazement,

she once more finds herself

alone on the couch

rearranging her disheveled clothes.

And this time,

he is locked away in the toilet

for a good twenty minutes or more.

She’s at the point of slumping down

into the cushions for a nap

when she hears the door unlatch again.

Stepping from the toilet,

his eyes meet hers and she can instantly tell

there’s something very different.

Indeed, that which is there,

spreads from pupils,

outward to eye sockets and further,

   to overwhelm his entire face.

In quick transition, a look of shock;

a look of fright;   a look of      anger.

And there from those lips

which had just been pressed against hers

come the following words: “Who are you?!

How the hell did you get into my house?!”

To this she starts to giggle and mutter a quizzical,

“er… What?” to his somewhat inappropriate joke,

when he overrides her with “Who the hell are you?!

How the fuck did you get in here?!”

And here she comes to realize

that there’s nothing funny

about his current ill-romantic demeanor.

Again she tries to utter a response of “What?”

but here is voice gets shrill and ever more frantic.

“I’m calling the police!

You better get the hell outta here, ‘cause…”

And here she suddenly hears

her own voice overriding his.

“What’s going on here?

Why are you acting like this?

I’m your date, god damn it!

Don’t you remember you and I

just now sitting on this couch?!”

It’s at this point she recalls his face

   altering yet again.

Its mutating from extreme anger

   to that of utmost pain.

And he    begins to sob.

Not just cry, but   sob.

He wanders over to the couch,

sits down, buries his head in hands

   and truly breaks down.

And yo! If there’s anything

that pushes a woman’s buttons

it’s when the man she finds worthy of sex

turns into the man she wants to kick in the groin,

but then quickly transitions

to the man she wants to

hold to her naked breast and nurse.

A maelstrom of manic emotion.

A macabre and malignant mix

of malnourished masculinity.

A magmatic magnum of mother’s milk,

primed for manly mammary mastication.

Madness.   Madness.   Madness.

I think it was right around

this point in the story

when those of us on the

outside of the asylum’s gates

decided to phone in an observation.

“So… um…

You got the fuck outta there, right?”

And here a serene smile forms upon her face.

“No.    Actually,

we’ve got another date this coming Friday.”

Ah…

The mysteries of amour.

Boy meets girl.

Girl meets boy.

Someone’s forehead meets

   a meat-cleaver.

Not saying who.    ‘Cause

    you know…

Romance is always best when unpredictable.

Ah heck!

Who’s foolin’ who?

Doesn’t the boy

always

get the girl

in the end?

©2010 Jack Hubbell