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why can't I call you sweetie?
 
I mean, your girlfriend is nowhere to be seen
and I don't peg you as the type suffering from
male insecurity 'cause a queer called you cute.
I don't see a switchblade in your back pocket
and guns don't solve anything, so what's the problem?
what is the matter?
I hope you’re not going to give me that,
if-I-was-gay-you-would-be-the-first-guy-I-would-ask-out speech, 
because if you are, give me time to put my hands
over my ears and hold my breath. 
Flattery won't get you anywhere,
it makes my gums bleed.
But you don't want to hear about my problems.
You have no need to know about the guy who took all
nine inches like a pro or the time a man got screwed
so good, he thought it was god.
 
Why can't I call you sweetie,
or honey,
or suga pie,
or baby,
or sweetheart?
I mean nothing by it.
I’m aware you have a nice girl
waiting for you at home.
A girl who keeps the bed warm,
who cuts up your meat into tiny pieces,
who irons even your underwear
and you both share that fantastic apartment
with the fantastic view of the state's capital
that fantastic bathroom with his and her towels.
The medicine cabinet mirror large enough to curl
her hair in, to shave your perfect Jewish face in.
How could I forget, when you remind me 
every single chance you get.

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