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An Exchange Overheard at a Falafel Stand

January 8, 2009

-I’m pregnant
-What?
-Pregnant.
-You’re going to have a baby!
-No.
-No?
-No.
-You’re pregnant, but not going to have a baby? What are you going to have, a monkey?
-An Abortion.

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Christmas 1988

January 7, 2009
tags:

Christmas 1988  Or: A Ghost Story

So I’d lain my penis in the indentation atop the bar in my basement and was smacking it with a large pestle ( á la Hanzo “The Razor”) when my hot neighbor walked in.
She didn’t even notice what I was doing at first, as I was behind the bar, but then her eyes fixed on my membrum virile and, for a moment, she froze in place, mouth agape.
With a noticeable exertion of willpower manifested in a shaking of her head, she ploughed through the shock and asked me, “Weren’t you even going to come up and say ‘Hi'”?

I told her that I didn’t know she was up there, that I was focused on…other things.

She laughed and said “I can see that”, and told me to “join the party when you’re done”.
I told her I would, and she left, adding “Hurry up,” in a sing-song voice as she made her way back up the stairs.
When I was, once again, alone, it occurred to me that I probably should have put my penis back in my pants the very second that I was alerted to the presence of another person in the room. Perhaps she would have disbelieved her own eyes, reasoning that it was, in fact, unlikely, that she saw what she thought she saw. Nobody beats their penis with a cudgel, she might well have thought.
It would have been an easy matter to bend my knees just enough so the bar would have blocked any confirming view, but, in the moment, my mind gave me the extremely questionable impression that sudden movement equaled guilt and embarrassment, and that laconically ignoring the fact that my penis was laying on the bar equaled, somehow, less guilt and embarrassment.
Funny how the mind works sometimes.

I never knew if she told anyone about the incident, but any time I’d run into her parents when leaving the house, I’d kind of stick out my chest and stand a little taller as if to say, ‘Yeah, I abuse myself like a blacksmith. What of it?’

I think that, in an alternate universe, she and I dated, married, and had children together. In this universe, however, she moved away the next summer.

Every year as the holiday season approaches, I think about her. This year being no exception.

To some, the holidays bring warm thoughts of home, hearth, and family.

To me, the holidays mean Shame. Deep. Abiding. Shame.

Merry Christmas!

Ceci n’est pas une nue femme

January 7, 2009

botticelli

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