I hate the little twerp. Sometimes. It’s an interesting and stilted chemistry, so I’m baffled at the goodies he yields me, when he’s not there, for intervals of five minutes – bastard! What a paradox. That sexy prick. The pheromonal reaction of our chemistry is involuntary. But it doesn’t put me off. I’m cool. He won’t know. There were guys who seemed perfect, but I had to force a reaction, and wound up thoroughly disappointed.
Deep incongruities between us keep a functional distance with regard to this issue. There’s no way in Hades I could find myself emotionally dependent on him. I don’t suffer from dilated pupils or rapid breathing around him; but I do harbor that affection that makes an episode like this partly possible. I don’t actually need him in order to take care of my business. The imagery he inspires is that cake in the refrigerator at home that I think of at work. I come home and I kill it.
With their own forces contained, the teenaged girls at the outer rim of the circle anticipated a glorious physical reaction once the break dancers, Zack and Caleb, started their duel at the nucleus. At the climax of the record, the break dancers were further driven by pheromones coming from the beauties. Furiously competing, Zack and Caleb writhed, dropping intermittently, bouncing in their own stylized way back up from the floor. They owned the prowess of athletes. Zack raised a palm inches from Caleb’s grimace, a hyperbolic traffic cop motion to express his authority to stop the brother, letting him know that he was no competition. Gripping the burgundy Kangol on his head, Caleb vibrated in his place like a jackhammer his lips flapping along for the ride. Along with the essence of pheromones, wafting over the dancer’s heads were synthetic fragrances, Wind Song, spearmint and cherry gum. “Peace will come this world will rest, once we have to-geth-ernesssss, agggggghhhhhhhhhh!!!”
I had planned to write about the crushes that I’ve had on the men in the Hasidic community on Bennett Avenue, or on how erotic armpit odor is (hey look, it has raging pheromones in it, I think – or something like this). But as I was getting ready to broil my meat, thinking of phone calls I had to return after eating, I thought about one woman on the list, and how she was the first woman who had affectionately called me a bitch. Now this was back in 1993. Because I am mad corny, or shall I say, incredibly corny, (okay, really, I’m not that corny) I was absolutely taken aback when she casually said in the most laid back, sexy voice, ‘Okay bitch, so I’ma call you back tomorrow aight’. ‘T-tomorrow – oh, okay’, I stammered. I’m thinking, she called me a bad word but in an affectionate tone. Does this mean, like, I am her bitch, or is it a new way of saying honey, or baby, or dear? Did she mean to offend me? Should I get on the A train to her house and invite her downstairs for a round of fisticuffs? This apparently is some newfangled way of speaking that I haven’t been acquainted with as of yet, I figured. Maybe when she calls back tomorrow, I’ll show her I know what time it is and say ‘Why, good morning to ya bitch! How are you today? So, bitch, what’s on the agenda?’
Since then I’m everybody’s bitch. ‘Bitch! You drank all my Jack Daniels’ – ‘Hey bitch, what’s up,’ they all say. And I’m down with the program today, reciprocating this term of endearment with the utmost jocularity.
Peace out bitches!