In Uncategorized on April 3, 2010 at 12:19 am

photo by Lisa Guidarini

Sweat, A Sexy Coolant

by M.A. Tailor

I sweat.  My pores leak hot lava, spilling out of little volcanoes into streams trickling down my head, neck and back.  It burns my eyes.  My shirt thirsts; it drinks from the rivers and ponds of my perspiration.  Wet rings smile below my breasts and underarms.  A saturated line snakes down the center of my back causing my shirt to cling against my moist skin.  I bask in my own juices, my broth, my oils.  I lick my lips, a taste of punchy salt tingles on the tip of my tongue.

I sweat while cutting the grass on a muggy day.  I sweat when breaking through a high fever.  Sweat – my coolant – cleanses my pores rendering my skin clammy and sticky, a banquet to gnats and mosquitoes.  I am the antonym of sexpot when I sweat, I need to shower.

Under the colors of throbbing lights, rock stars sweat.  The lead singer captivates his audience with his gyrating hips; the buttons on his shirt melt like M&M’s and his sparkling, bare chest peeks out.  He exploits his version of the mating dance while hypnotized by his band’s pulsating music nudging him to the edge of the stage.  His skin shines and tears with perspiration.  His hair sways like wet strands of chocolate spaghetti.  A carpet of woven arms and hands reach above the nap of heads bobbing to the thrusting rhythm.  The girls in the front row reach out to their sexual healer, they long to be baptized in his sweat.  His coolant possesses the intimate power to cleanse away innocence.  Elvis exhibited this power.  His sweaty scarf could transform a post-menopausal woman into a lusty teen.  The women who clutched Elvis’s sweat riddled scarves breathed in his private scent.  To seize his scarf meant a divine connection:  you are the chosen one.

Below my kitchen sink, through the open cabinet door is a contorted plumber.  He is confined to touching my pipes by bending and stretching in ways a man his size should never dream of.  His trousers cannot keep up with his kneeling on all fours, squatting, and sitting positions.  I notice the glow of his derrière, and am punished by the top of his crack frowning back at me.  A clear line of sweat glazes down his hairy back and into the valley of his freckled pound cakes.  Is this sexy?  I ponder the value of perspiration.  Could there be a fine line between creepy and sexy?  Maybe if Elvis turned plumber we could answer that question.

Three Irish Waitresses

by Tony Schrieber

Peaches, Melba and May O’Naise

Sling hash at Slim Eddie’s Grill.

They carry the hot meals

From kitchen to table

Until everyone has their fill.

Peaches, the oldest, of the three

Is pretty and well endowed.

She charms the diners

With her wisdom and wit

But no touch is ever allowed.

Melba, the trio’s middle child

Is aloof, quiet and so cold

She gets no special tips

For her efficient work

Just coins with no paper to fold.

Sweet young May is so innocent

She knows little about life

She believes each patron

Is telling God’s whole truth

When he says she should be his wife.

Peaches , Melba, and May O’Naise

Sling hash at Slim Eddie’s Grill

They carry the hot meals

From kitchen to table

And it looks like they always will.

  1. Blue Plate Special is a fine piece

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: