jonberger

I could tell it was awkward
for him.
He didn’t want to have
this conversation with me.
He wasn’t sure what to think
or whom to believe
so he didn’t even ask
for my side of the story.

He simply told me
that she’d been uncomfortable
with my remarks
and the way I had looked at her
and how frequently I had found myself
within her vicinity.
He didn’t say that she’d reported me.
That much was obvious.

He simply stated the facts
and ducked out
before I could respond.
He’d made it clear
his opinion in the matter
didn’t matter
just that she was displeased
with my behavior
and something had to change.

I was left to my own devices
as to how to do things differently
so from then on
I made sure to hide my stares and leers
so that she wouldn’t notice
and be so uncomfortable.

I’ve been a bad boy for most of my life.
I’ve been rude to most every girlfriend or wife.
I sent sexual texts in all circumstances
and grinded on girls at each plural dances.
The number of stares, glares and leers that were given
to countlessly varied figures of women
on the streets of this city and many another,
to girls who were sisters, or daughters – or mothers?

The times that I’ve drooled over ladies this year
is greater than cakes I have eaten – or beers
I’ve imbibed in the time that I mentioned above.
It’s in no way a part of myself that I love.
I’ve objectified early and often, it’s true.
And I’m part to blame, but others are, too.
It’s society’s fault – and most credit’s due
to that late great and dated pornographer, Hugh.

Look to his magazine to find the fault.
It is at that cathedral to broads I was called to
at an early age where I saw my first nudes.
They were glorious, available, in tri-fold view.
I saw lasses so lovely, so sassy, so free
and I found right away that they were there for me
to look at, and study, and flirt with, and know.
It was the Playboy Mansion that had taught me so.

Of course I’ve been known as an unwoken cur
and it’s not a rare day for some crap sexist slur
to escape from my lips as I wolf whistle foxes
whom I might track home after finding their doxes.
The immoral positions I’ve voiced are quite many.
If there was a chance to be crass? I took any
and all opportunities to say that word
that oppresses with zest. My will would be heard.

But if you feel I’ve done some of your gender harm
and expect an apology, don’t bet the farm.
Since I know that of all of the actions I’ve taken
to commodify women – while perhaps mistaken –
did at no time or place originate from me.
The source of my motives, was Hefner, you see?
It’s his behavior that made me go bad.
If you’re peeved at me; be at him really mad!

It is the Playboy Mansion that you should burn down.
As the King of the Bastards, it’s old Hef holds the crown.
He gave me the means to treat women as meat
from their well-coiffed hair to their well-cobbled feet.
If girlies from me have received a raw deal,
to attack Hugh is suitably prudent, I feel.
If ever the appropriate thing wasn’t said,
don’t rag on me – kick the guy who is dead.

She said, "You know,
maybe you shouldn’t pop up
on my block
unannounced.
People might get uncomfortable."

When she said "people,"
she was referring to herself.

I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable.
I just wanted to see her.
I had thought that she might think it was sweet.
I had hoped that she’d think it was sweet.
She did not.

Nor did she not want to see me anymore
after that.
This was a fact that
it took me a little time
to decode
because I do not always understand
the ways that others behave.

She was my tutor
and I
was a terror.

I would not listen.
I would not behave.
I would not explain why I,
a perfectly adequate math student,
would avoid the assignments
and instead seek to wrestle
my instructor.

I mean,
I understand.
She was a few years older
and hot
in that unobtainable way
a high school junior is
to an eighth grader
not entirely in charge
of his hormones.
I can explain in retrospect
why I was picking fights
that consistently got physical
with this chesty chick
but at the time
I just knew
the thing I wanted to be learning
was less about algebra
and more about biology.

I ended up
getting into the high school of my choice
but not getting involved
with any girls
for any number of years to come.

I didn’t want to do it.
I was upset with her.
She’d made me feel small
and jealous and unappreciated
and I also didn’t want to get in trouble
with her parents.

But she quietly crept in
and joined me
and so as not to wake a soul
she sought to comfort me
to take back
some of the things she had said
and did
and though I had previously said no
on more than one occasion
I ended up
saying something else
very different indeed.

I didn’t want to do it.
I wasn’t in the mood
and had so gone on the record
but I was eventually convinced
otherwise.

When you were on the rag
and I was too ooked out for period sex
but I was feeling kind of randy
and I tried to coax you
to blow me
and then I tried to convince you
to blow me
and then I began to coerce you
and none of it was working

and I got a little testy
and suggested that it was my prerogative
to request such things
and that I’d been pretty patient with you
but that I’d gotten you flowers on Valentine’s Day
– despite the obscene markup –
and had remembered our three month anniversary
and really,
what’s a little blow job
between friends
and you said that thing
– you know the one.
Don’t make me repeat it.
All right. Fine.
You said
that “little” was appropriate
considering what you’d be blowing
– you don’t need to laugh again.
You’re the one that said it!

Anyway…

When you got all snippy that weekend
and I got insistent
and you kicked me out
and didn’t take my calls for a few days…
I’m sorry about all that.
I was insensitive
and I apologize.
All right?
Cool.

So
about that blowie…

Fine. I get it.
You don’t like me
anymore
– yes, I insist upon that addition,
See, despite what you currently claim
I know you liked me.
Everything you did, said,
and showed
gave me ample evidence
to support that assessment.

Yes, I hear you.
You think you’d know your own mind
better than me, sure.
But I could tell.
I could smell your interest.
I’m not usually good with signs and portents
but the universe pointed to you
– for maybe a minute and a half –
being into me.

So it’s over.
I get that.
I can see
how maybe I’m more man
than you could bear
and maybe I came on strong that one time
– those three times –
… that month…
but you provided reason
for me to think my interest was reciprocated
for that little while.

I’m sorry about the blood, though.
I guess I could’ve been
a bit more careful.

You don’t have to be
such a bitch about it.

He pulled me away from her
and asked what I was doing.
Shouting over the bar noise:
"Don’t you think
she’s had enough?"

I looked back at the girl,
– the beautiful girl –
finishing her drink
– her third beautiful drink –
that I’d bought her
within the hour.

"Don’t worry,"
I said,
"She knows her tolerance
better than we do."
He looked at me
and looked at her.
He didn’t look sure.

"What?"
She’d come into the bar
looking to unwind
and all I was doing
was helping her accomplish her mission.
Why did this guy
– this holier than thou
almighty man guy –
have to judge me
and ruin the momentum?

"Excuse me," he said to her,
"Can I get you a cab?"
She seemed very appreciative
of his attention.

What a dick.

She told me
under no circumstances
should I touch her head
so of course
all I could think about
was touching her head.

She’d been quite clear in her instructions
and was at the moment
acting in a particularly generous way
and all that was required of me
was nothing.
I could leave well enough alone,
not rock the boat,
simply try to keep calm
and carry on, but
like George Washington’s white horse
I could not shake
that one image from my head
and my hand, encroaching
sought to undo
her single commandment.

She didn’t tell me why;
perhaps what she gave so willingly
she didn’t want to be forced to do.
Something about consent?
I dunno.

If I had control
I could keep the peace.
If I did what I was told
this might be the beginning
of a beautiful relationship.
So little was expected of me
but I was very worried
what was expected of me
was too much.

She asked me not to touch her head.
I really wanted to.
I wonder
whatever happened to that girl.

Phil and me
sitting around
in yet another unsupervised Study Hall.
Phil’s new to the school
so I’m telling him what’s what.

"That girl there?" I say,
chin pointing

at the only poodle skirt and cardigan
in the hall.
"That’s Yancy.
She’s a slut."

"Yeah?" Phil asks.
"Yeah."
I don’t know that.

I know Yancy from Spanish
where we’d been separated
because we talked too much in class
so we get along
but we don’t get along that well.

But I’d heard tell around eighth grade.

All the boys talked
about how Yancy would put out
though I never quite heard

precisely for whom she had put out.

"Check it out," I say
and call Yancy over.
She comes right away
and I put it to her:
"Do you want to have sex?"

She looks down at me
disappointed
and then turns one eighty
her skirt twirling
leaving me.
I chuckle, nudging Phil
but he says nothing.

I don’t talk to Phil much after that.
I don’t talk to Yancy ever.
I think they date for maybe a week
but I never know for sure.