—photo © Ann Margaret Bogle, 2015
I went on a Match dot com date with an
interesting fellow who works as a ____ for a ____. His ____ escaped ____, later
met his ____ in ____. They are ____ and ____, his ____ now passed and his ____
about to move. He has hobbies as a (long-time) ____, ____, and ____. Nice guy,
never married, no kids, fifty-something. Good correspondent by email, gentle
presence. So why am I so romantically disinclined, not only toward him, but
toward all men except in dreams? I never dream of sex with women. I once
dreamed of refusing to kiss a woman. I remind myself sometimes that I evaded
lesbianism. I still would evade it, and the gay women, as they call themselves
now, if they are still political, would evade me for having chosen heterosexual
privilege. I like to listen to average women talk about beauty and
fashion. I think average women are fascinating and foreign. Average men seem
imposing, despite my tact with them. Only exceptional men are of interest, and
they are never far from being “spoken for.”
Bogle's collection, Country Without a Name, includes "Mariposa,"
"Virgo," and "Hysteria," which appeared earlier in Camroc Press Review.
Ann, doing her thing. I love her often puzzling work.
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