In Love Since 1998

I don’t know which saddens me more, that the Latino who sexually harassed me did so while I was exiting my uncle’s nursing home or that this Latino was pedaling a bicycle intended for a child. Clearly, the oral love sounds that he made at me were  his way of compensating for the petite machine between his legs.

Approaching my body, he punctuated his oral love sounds by crying out, “Preciosa!”

Preciosa, the movie.

I hold such expressions to be the behavioral equivalents of truck balls, sad, dirty, pathetic attempts at swinging around male genitalia when it’s uncalled for. Such expressions bring to mind the time that I was on my way to the San Francisco Dyke March and ran into one of my professors at an Oakland BART station. The professor was standing on the platform with her girlfriend, a nebbishy lady who could pass for the comic strip character Cathy afflicted with emphysema, and this little lover looked mad, mad at everything without ovaries.

Yes, but dykier and with pulmonary disease.

I fell in love with the angry woman’s t-shirt. It was a homemade number and ironed to it were letters spelling out, “MEN, CAN’T LIVE WITH ‘EM. DON’T HAVE TO!

As I celebrate fourteen years with my honey today, we embody my professor’s girlfriend’s t-shirt’s sentiment.

I kiss wimmin and I like it, the taste of their hairy armpits…

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