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Men’s fiction by John Owen

A New Yorker meets the mysterious woman of his dreams.

Whenever Harry’s in a fern bar and hears a dame order her drink, ‘with a twist!’ he mutters to himself, “Twist this.” Women. It seems like eventually they all fall into two categories: Old Style or Lunatic. Harry knows when he’s being politically incorrect but sidesteps the issue by thinking that as long as it’s his little secret there’s really no irreparable harm done, right? It feels so good to have a clue. Don’t you wish everyone did? Besides, where’s it written that just because it’s unpleasant it can’t still be the truth? Please. That’s just the way it is. Once Harry was in a club and a chick bounced over to ask what his sign was. “Slippery When Wet,” he’d smirked, not missing a beat.  She vanished in a huff snorting, “Decrease the dosage, asshole!” but not before Harry had seen that frisky twinkle in her eyes cloud over and turn to hurt. Classic. They wanna play games all breathless-like, then turn into two year olds when Daddy spanks ‘em. To top it all off, they expect to treated like Yale Ph.D.‘s. Right. Pheminist Dipshits! Hey, that’s pretty good! Too bad I can’t share it with Cry Baby over there. Without realizing why, Harry felt his mood go sour. He was beyond grumpy, he was angry and guilty. He was angry at himself for feeling guilty and he didn’t deserve either one, dammit! Jesus, calm down! Have another beer my friend. What’s a hep cat like you doin’ in this stupid club anyway? This place would make a woman hater outta Broadway Joe Nobody Beats The Fuckin’ Wiz Namath!  HEY… CAMCORDER THIS!

    Why do women fake orgasms? Because they think we give a shit. Harry was now feeling pure ugly.  He considered renting a porno, imagined himself in a taxi speeding towards his favorite strip joint. Even more pathetic, saw himself (really clearly) blubberingly confessing all his lonely insecurities into his best friend’s answering machine.  Sheesh, babe,  get a grip! You really let that bitch get to you. Wait a minute… maybe there’s something to the phone idea after all. Am I tryin’ to tell myself something? Why not try one of those escort services out?  Harry decided to take a bus back to his pad. This would be his first whore and he needed time to mull over the decision. At the bus stop Harry Schwartz waits, the picture of sensitive male in his store-bought distressed motorcycle jacket, leaning nonchalantly against the florescent rectangle of Kate Moss, goddess of all the lonelies. Soon enough he sees the florescent slab of the M101 approaching.  As soon as he gets on he feels lighter, relaxed, pure. Certified by the clink of his token.  The bus is almost empty.  He makes for the back like always. He arranges himself in the rear seat, slides open a window four inches and surreptitiously lights a cigarette, exhaling cool into the passing rectangle of night.

Posted at 4am on 11/12/2004 | comments are closed Filed Under: Fiction

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