Photobooth by Myles Boisen |
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DATING SERVICES: 20 ME: 0
by Michelle Johnson Steve said he was six feet— I’m five-eleven— He barely came to my chin. Kevin said, I'm tall and tan. A tall black man sat down. Then there was Ted, who, on our first date, bragged that while providing oral lovin' he caused his date's foot to crash through his glass coffee table, And it was thick glass, too. Hans was very open to sex because he molested his little sister— He was sixteen; she was twelve. It was only a couple of times. He was getting help, of course. Matt said after a decaffeinated espresso, You're a little too high strung. Busy. Have you considered Bikram and Soy? It’s very centering. Over margaritas another confessed He was still sorta married, but not really. It was complicated, Another wasn’t married— he just wanted a good time. Like how about now? Wendell said he thought about getting a dog instead of a girlfriend. Dogs are easier. David liked to kiss hard and deep-throat like and suggest weight-loss tips. Another enthusiastically proposed reading up on giving blowjobs. Good advice he thought, since many in his past missed important parts. Tom thought it was appropriate to tell me I was very entertaining, just not very pretty. B. Love studied reproduction in honeybees, but felt too much pressure to balance bees and me. There was a surgeon, a butcher, a contractor, a metal band bassist, a computer engineer and an embezzler. The embezzler kept a notebook with sketches of Lionel train setups he'd like to have some day. He let me look at the book while he went to the bathroom. There was Karl from Ireland. Partied with Bono. We ate jicama on his backporch, drank hot tea, and sipped syrah late into the evening. We kissed and promised another day. An email waiting said— Dating and relationships take too much work, don’t they? Take care. The last one fathered six children— with six different women— He was only married once. He flashed two gold teeth, as he stiffed our server. My new-aged friends say happiness and love are already within us. I just need to be open. Send out the positives and love will find me. And my mom, she tells me, Go to church. MS. BULIMIA by Michelle Johnson I am hungry for a man. I want all of him in me— not just his blue-veined, pulsing cock. I start with the chewy layer of skin. I peel it off like the chocolate icing of a Hostess cupcake. My goal: lift without tearing or ripping— one entire sheet of man. I twisttwirl transparent tissue between finger and thumb and eat it like a sticky fruit rollup. Next, I cut off bite-sized squares of plump cheeks, succulent slices of shank and ass. First, my bites are measured— rectangular sections of muscle, dripping with fat. But, soon, I become sloppy— ravenous. It feels like I haven't eaten in days. I barely pause to chew the organ sweetmeats. By the time I swallow his heart, I know he's mine. After he's all gone, there’s nothing left but his neat pile of clothes. I don’t stop there: Oxford, Dockers, boxers, shoes find their way to my mouth. I chew their dryness to a moist fabric-smack. It's not about feeling satisfied. It's sheer consumption. Quantity. So I turn and search for more men to gobble. Shame sets in when there's no one left. I'm sick. Full of men. At first, they don't come up so easily: bit of ear, button, strand of flesh. But with time, and push of rib bone, I am able to purge them all. One by one, they splash until the bowl is full.  Michelle Johnson Michelle Johnson is a graduate of Sacramento State (1999), a transplant from Omaha, Nebraska, and an English Instructor at Sierra College. She is the proud mom of two— Chelsea going to Cal Berkeley and Gabriel going to fourth grade. She has been writing off and on most of her life, and lists her biggest influences as Catherine Fraga, Dorianne Laux and Kim Addonizio. |
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