Winter 2012

Fly Me to the Moon

      Let’s start with dinner. I burn a couple of steaks for us. Roast potatoes with rosemary, white asparagus. You are a culturally-enlightened Portuguese-American hippie chick from Brockton or Pawtucket and you made dean’s list while starring on the volleyball team. You weigh between 175 and 185 when completely naked, as you are now, spread out on a bear rug before a fire. 182. You just weighed yourself after taking off your sports bra and sweat pants to get an accurate number. One year five limericks about you (the rhyme words being “plump,” “rump,” “Pawtucket,” “bucket,” and “fuck it”) were written by the boys in Delta Epsilon.

      You can see how interested in you the doctor is. Your brown eyes did the trick. You are six feet four inches tall, beautifully proportioned, with a twenty-six inch waist, and a 38 D-cup bra, and you love getting that — smacked, and then you like being — from the —. But you want foreplay first. Lots of foreplay, plus full candlelight, and Sinatra in black and white singing “Fly Me to the Moon.” To celebrate I will dribble a basketball up and down Wall Street like a certain point guard in the 1969–70 championship season. I love foreplay. If I write a novel it will be for you and I will call it "Endless Foreplay."

      “You are so sensitive and feeling,” you say. “Thank you. You are truly a worldly and sophisticated secular humanist.”



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