Casida of the Reclining Woman
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Ditty of First DesireIn the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
A heart.
And in the ripe evening
I wanted to be a nightingale.
A nightingale.
(Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love.)
In the vivid morning
I wanted to be myself.
A heart.
And at the evening's end
I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale.
Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love.
-Federico García Lorca
Around these parts I'm known as something of a female Don Juan. My stunning good looks and winning demeanor combine to create a force that no man can deny. That is, almost no man.
The chef where I work is improbably attractive, and I make it my job to tell him this everyday. I use such openings as, "She said her gnocchi wasn't hot...but you sure are," and "The consolidated system reports didn't get faxed last night....in other news, I want to touch your no-no spots." Do you see my clever wordplay? The undeniable brilliance that turns each come-on into beautiful soliloquies of desire?
Just last week, while battling a nasty cold, I took a moment between nose blows, looked at him, and said, "You know, we could go into the walk in and have snotty, phlegmy sex right now." And while taking inventory, I mentioned that we were short a bottle of Grey Goose, but "looking at your pants, I think you probably shoved it down there. I think we might have to strip search you." Reader, I know it's nearly impossible to comprehend, but to date he has not taken me up on ONE of my offers. I don't know if it's his super-hot, wonderful girlfriend or a hidden desire for penis, but I am simply baffled.
Any advice?
