My Own True Love

Originally Posted Monday, July 1, 2013

Why do people want to come to the U.S. so badly?  I mean the ones who do.  Why are they willing to chance rafting across great shark infested bodies of water, crossing vast deserts, digging dangerous underground tunnels beneath the border?  Opportunity.  They are able to do something that they want to do here whether it is making money or. . . marrying whom they want.  I assume now that hordes of gay hustlers will be swarming the United States just as Russian hookers once did.  At least one of my gay friends (there's that phrase again) can't wait to marry a young Tunisian boy and get him his Green Card.  He's as bad as I with my future adopted Thai "daughters."  This country has lost its moral compass.  Remember how television used to show us the real Americans like Matt Dillon and Miss Kitty?  That's America. 

Was she really called "Miss Kitty"?  Try that now.  "Oh, her Christan name is Raquel, but I like to refer to her as "Miss Kitty." 

Speaking of which, the cat is driving me crazy.  She has been a mess since I came back from New Mexico.  Very needy.  It is a form of aggression, I think, rather than love.  She tries to manipulate me get me to do things I don't really want to do.  I guess she isn't any different than most people I know. 

Yesterday I went to brunch alone at one of the local places that caters to the once hip elite of my own hometown who have become wretched aged things too hideous to bear.  At least on the weekends when they have bands perform which sound like karaoke machines.  The dying elephants roll out onto the dance floor with an arthritic alacrity that is quite moving.  Really.  I have to fight the sudden and violent urge to retch.  But on Saturday and Sunday mornings and afternoons, the place becomes "normal," meaning that even the pretty boys and girls from Country Club College go there to eat. 

So yesterday afternoon, I sat at the crowded bar between one of "those" men who talks too much to impress the women on his right and a very, very pretty girl/woman who sat next to one of "those" men who shaves his body and talks too much about stupid things.  On her left.  I squeezed in between the two and had to sit back from the bar so as not to bump them.  It was O.K. because I could look at the girl/woman better, at least the back of her head and her very pretty legs.  Once in a while I'd lean forward to get my mimosa and she would take a bite of food and I could almost see how much my type she was.  She was the sort I have a very strong physical and emotional reaction to immediately.  My type, the kind I'd marry, not just someone to look at.  These marrying types always have a conservative, sophisticated demeanor and understated, tasteful clothes.  She reminded me of my ex, a real country club pocket model with a voice like money.  She laughed like diamonds poured into cut crystal.  I was deeply moved. 

I listened to her conversation with the Goomba.  I couldn't help myself.  She crossed her legs in her very nice short shorts, and I thought of you.  What?  I can't help it.  I thought, "I will take a picture of her for tomorrow's post.  I will confess my strangeness once again, my disgusting love of sophisticated younger women."  I was checking my email and responding to texts as I have learned to do in these modern times just like the people I used to get pissed off about, and so I switched it over to camera and turned to frame her subtly though everyone behind me would be able to see what I was doing which made me hunch over the phone in an unnatural way giving me the appearance of the sick pervert I was about to become.  And just then she turned and spoke to me.  I thought I was busted.  I clamped my bladder shut just in the nick of time. 

"Was that girl's name Sarah?" 

"I don't know, I don't know, I wasn't doing anything." 

That is what it felt like I said.  It came out, "Mmm, mmm."  You know, the quick one that means "no." 

I went back to texting to make my interest in my phone seem more legitimate. 

Just as I finished my eggs benedict and had paid my bill, she bumped me with her arm.  She turned her face full towards me and smiled. 

"I'm sorry," she said as if she were saying, "please make love to me." 

She was simply breathtakingly beautiful. 

"I hope you are not leaving because of me." 

I got some instant flu.  My entire body began to ache and shake.  I couldn't think. 

"Uh, yes.  I don't want to get into a fist fight with you."  I smiled what used to be a clever grin but probably comes across now as a deformity.  She lifted her chin and laughed a quick soft laugh like newly minted money.  I wanted to confess how much her beauty disarmed me, how much I wanted to buy her drinks, to sit and talk to her for the rest of the day and night, to convince her how profoundly well-read and interesting I was. . . how much I wanted to make her love me. 

Instead, I tried to keep the arthritic hitch out of my gate as I turned my back to walk toward the distant door.  I could not hear it, but I could predict the derogatory thing the Goomba hissed close to her very tender ear.

Even this morning I regret not telling her something, telling her more.  It is awful.  It is wrong.  It is true. 

The body suit the girl in the photo is wearing is hideous, but I love it.  It is the opposite thing from my love.