1. Golden Retriever
“Come here,” said the lady, who was Asian-American and in her fifties at least.
“OK,” said the guy, who was in his 20s and as blonde and blue-eyed as apple pie.
He was eager to please; a friend had told him that his “spirit animal” was a golden retriever.
She kissed him and he laughed a little into her mouth, drunk on the pisco sour he’d drunk in the small plane, laughing because he was thinking about how her spirit animal was a cougar.
He laughed “ha ha ha” into her hungry kiss, thinking it would be a funny story to tell: about the Asian cougar who had seduced him during his trip from Chile to Antarctica. She grabbed him with a ferocity that betrayed the vast unfulfilled pit deep in her, so deep in her it was all of her.
What if my name were Laurette?
What if I were French, or you thought I was?
I could be anything other, and tell you something else, and you wouldn’t even know, would you?
Brian Powell often wondered why he wasn’t a hit with the ladies.
His folks had a lot of dough, and bought him a house.
They gave him a little allowance, too, and this he saved for a few months so he could afford to go to the Bunny Ranch, that famous brothel in Nevada where it’s legal. He was determined to lose his virginity before he turned 35.
He saw his life as a romantic comedy that was only sometimes tragic.
He pulled up to the house in his rental car, the house where the bunnies lived. He tried to calm his breathing. He sat in his car in the hot dry sun. He never got out. He drove back to his hotel. He never went back. He wrote a funny blog post about it.
He thought his life was only sometimes tragic.