Netflix and chill

come up and see me sometime
want to see my stamp collection
care for a cup of coffee
a nightcap
some weed
save the last dance for me
play Scrabble
arm wrestle
Gone With the Wind
use your bathroom
use your bedroom
Twister
hide and go seek
the basement tapes
vestibular balance
lost in translation
wanna hold your hand
practice salsa
take in a movie
baby, it's cold outside
life is short
do you have AC
work on that report
sand your floors
a spot of tea
read your palm
rub my neck
do yoga
study for the exam
check your cable connection
light my fire
see my vinyl
sing for my supper
taste your carrot cake
gel with gelato

next kiss

Female. My age range (meaning within fifteen or twenty years my junior; within, meaning potentially one year my junior, or seven, or six months; hate my shallow chronological standard if you must). Equal to my height or shorter or taller. Equal to my weight or less than, but not 100 pounds (cf. hatred disclaimer above and modify accordingly). Lips not striated, thin, or parched. Full. Supple. Soft. Lipsticked, possibly amply and possibly boldly red. Not arid yet not slobbery. Preceded by mutual visual, olfactory, tactile, and verbal cues, signals, codes, mutually deciphered on some primitive and inescapable level. Daytime. Not morning. Initiated by me (to atone to myself and the world for a lifetime of uninitiativeness). But an element of surprise not adorned with aggression. A dollop of serendipity. Tentative. A false start. The risk of failure. And then the at-first subtle though soon sure and unmistakable reprise and reboot of First Kiss (see preceding post), the sought-for though unexpected betrayal of the rules of the universe, allowing the participants a taste of sparkling history and young wonder. Crackling of burnt dendrites.

hopeless romantic

You hear and see the term "hopeless romantic." Why hopeless and not hopeful? Does the former choice anticipate rejection, adding to the unrequited-love pose? Does the latter choice make it all sound too easy? Is being romantic a hopeless proposition, given the clash of romance and gauzy fantasy vs. the pebble-in-the-shoe or sand-in-your-tea challenges of so-called reality?

Pure Romance or Impure Holiness?

Pure romance? Or impure holiness? You decide. (Why not both? I say.) You may've heard about the church organist and choir director in Wisconsin (as in WisconSIN) who got fired for selling sex toys (on the side, so to speak). Yep. She was, um, a sales consultant for Pure Romance, sort of an erotic Avon products company that throws parties in women's homes. Wow. How shocking. What next? Women who take pole-dancing lessons at home? Oh. Right. Already happening. The priest said her position was not consistent with church teachings. Presumably, it would be okay if somehow these toys led to procreation. Or increased bingo revenues. Or squashed child molestation lawsuits. You can't make certain stuff up: the dateline for the story? New Franken, Wisconsin, where it's okay to be frank, but not too frank, at least not sexually, and evidently not with plastic vibrating frankfurters. The woman noted the choice was not hard (would you like that in pink or black?). According to news reports, she said she began selling the erogenous enhancers after a brain tumor and treatment resulted in sexual dysfunction. The former organist (go ahead! make your own puerile penile pun!), Linette Servais, 50, reportedly said, "After I got over the initial shock [was it a short circuit!?], I prayed over this a long time. I feel that Pure Romance is my ministry.'' She said she helps other women with problems like her own. So, let me get this, er, straight. If we accept her story, and the priest's premise, the sin consists of, what, the profit motive? The pleasure principle? The Peter Principle? A schedule conflict with choir practice? What's she guilty of? After all, she could even say she's helping these women put the pro in procreation. Apparently, some choir members quit in protest. And I quote: ". . . some have gathered at her home on occasional Thursdays to sing hymns." Beethoven's "Ode to Joy"? I've got a few others I could name, but decorum (and former seminarian boyhood guilt) prevent me.

Excuse me. Gotta go. My phone's vibrating.