Nicole

This is a love story. It is about how I managed to wow, and woo, and then – finally after a whole ton of happy, as well as heavy hearted time, win my wife. Her name is Nicole and I first saw her in the Castro region of San Francisco.

 admin

She was present at a poetry reading I was giving. There I was in the friendly neighborhood cafe, in my cutoffs and blue cotton shirt which was open to share some of the finest chest hair, if I do say so myself, in creation and there she was, staring up at me with what I took to be a rapturous gaze telegraphing, almost, her facebook details…..greenblue eyes the color of Bahamian shoals and a drop dead body – cleavage pointing down to depths of delights. I actually stopped reciting for a moment as her headlight stare froze me in my tracks. Her luminous smile released me to continue – I think it was a love song to some long lost lover. When it was over, i made my way to her and did my best to lie down in her eyes, to conquer those azure depths with the force of my presents, to work backwards from the love song and to write one with her…..forever. Nicole informed me that she loved loved my words and was going to share them with her girlfriend. “Your girl friend?” “Yes, I am gay gay gay.” “Are you sure?” “Oh, yes.” Well, OK, so we kept in touch – I was the drunken moth to her flamboyant flame, singed and unrepentant – I demanded she pay me attention, which she, guardedly, did. The next time I saw her was in San Telmo, an antique district of Buenos Aires, where we met at a friend’s house………

 Ash

rumored to have been one of the houses where some of the “disappeared,” college students, radicals, humanists, environmentalist,  were first kept on their way to their short flight from the open door of a military helicopter into the Atlantic from 3,000 feet.  The Argentine Junta pulled no punches.  They reigned briefly, honking and killing.  Then they took on the Brits.  Then they were devoured by history.  Rest in hell, generalissimos of the Junta.

 misanthrope

 

dear diary

Chest hair, innit! It’s poetry! It’s unbelievably wavy! Compare E. Hemingway, 1927, Old Man and the Chest Hair. Thick hair. Gray chest hair, in the sternum area, sprouting up like wild manzanita out of a declivity in the rocks. Neat pinwheel follicles around the nipples. This guy at the poetry reading had Connery-style chest hair, so profuse it puffed out his shirt. I was so put off I told him I was gay gay gay!  Then I met him again in B. A. and he had changed. He had  gone to a Hugh Jackman style with a Clark Gable curl. I decided,despite his funny wa of talking, thatI liked him. Chesty, the best is yet to come.

Nicole

 George Keenen

And then, just like magic, just like rainbows and hummingbirds, there she was – still radiant, and this time she smiled up at me, winked and mouthed “Chesty”. I was hooked, but maybe she was just playing with me since I had told her I was going to win her back to the male fold.

 

Help me, I gotta think of the perfect pick-up line, what would Ernest have said?

 new user

EH wouldn’t of said anything. He’d just unbutton the top few buttons of his chambray shirt and let the chest hair do all the work.

 George Keenen

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