National Poetry Month (Long Lost) Disasterpiece

 

 

Deaf Mute With Three-Pound Cock 

And Trust Fund Seeks Hottie.

     I learned today that my reading skills are as deficient as my love life. On January 31, I signed up for a community run singles hook-up service per one of my new years resolutions. My romantic life, it seems, over the past decade has been a constant string of failures. It could use a little help, because in the ladies department I appear be a complete moron. Especially after that last botched craigslist ad I placed: Deaf mute with three pound cock and trust fund seeks hottie.
     I got droves of responses. Ironically these women were all dreaming about the same kind of man—brawn, money, and bright as a Pet Rock.
     Steve, a part-time player friend said that whenever he starts talking about himself he always goes home alone. He said let her do the talking. Just ask questions and listen to what she has to say. That sounded easy enough to me, so I thought I’d try a new tactic. He warned against intellectual conversations. Don’t sound too smart, he said. That is a major turnoff.
     Date with kitty number one was a disaster with a capital “D.” We met on the hill at a dive bar. She must have noticed that the paper in my money clip wasn’t all green; she whined out in a storm about how all men are liars.
     The second date was equally as entertaining. Her name was Tiffany and she reminded me of a lollipop. Not in a literal sense, but in a delicious way she moved and fit into her clothes. We met at the Pearl for spicy tuna and pho. She blabbed endlessly on in this high pitched nasally squawking voice about the pumps she dreamed of and the stitching patterns on her jeans and how her clothes didn’t fit her luscious hips and thighs. I pulled muscles feigning interest. I also worked hard trying not to stare at her perky boobs, which, I might add, made the evening almost worth the pain. In my good humor, I left her sitting alone with the check. She was not amused.
     The third date never materialized after the difficulty I had in explaining the reasons why I would not be picking her up in the sporty little car I did not possess. I don’t know how she got it in her head that I had one. The fact that I gave up my vehicle, three years ago, for environmentalist reasons did not seem to register in her thinking as a fashionable thing to do.

---February 2007