July 27, 2007
“A” is for Androgynous


cydytame034.jpgShe had short brown hair like the boy who sat behind you in third grade: parted on the side, cut just above her ears, flopping slightly in her left eye. She, however, was no child. She was all woman, all five-feet something of her, all rangy length of arms and legs, all skinny-hot, milk-fleshed, tattooed beauty of her.

You’d see her at the gym because you were there and she was there and you seemed to have the same schedule.  It happened once, twice, three times, and before you knew it, you were scanning the gym floor for her as you crossed to the locker room. You were disappointed if you didn’t see her. You tweaked your workout if you did.

The cardio could wait. You could do legs tomorrow. There was no reason why you couldn’t start chest with cable presses. There was no rule against it, and if there were, you were ready to say fuck it.

This was not the kind of chick you were usually attracted to. She didn’t have the curves, for one thing, like, at all. She was flat as a surfboard, and watching her setting into the seated bench you could imagine sailing the palms of your hands over her flat sternum. You’d bet she had tiny little pink nipples. You’d bet she had them pierced. (Later in your bed, hand between your thighs, you’d imagine biting the metal in your teeth as you tasted her flesh with your tongue.) You never did get to see her in denuding in the locker room, her all flushed and sweet with sweat, like kettle corn, like Dutch licorice.

She wore flappy boys gym shorts in improbable colors like North Carolina blue. They clashed with her ink. There was ink all down her arms. A pin-up girl reclined on a deltoid. Dice rolled across another. Two birds flew together, tails pointed at opposite clavicles; they strung a big red heart between them. There were words too. All but one has fled your memory. That one was “androgynous” spelled out in thick black ye olde letters down one forearm.

“Androgynous.” Like you needed to be told. It was like labeling Mother Theresa “virgin.” Like labeling Marilyn Monroe “star.” Like labeling you “enamored.”

She was nothing if not androgynous. Every square inch of her flaunted conventional femininity with a negligent kind of insouciance that made you want to walk up to her, glimmering with sweat, trace a forefinger down the sinuous letters snaking down her forearm, raise your wet finger to your mouth and suck it. You wanted to press her against a wall and cup her pudendum.

Or maybe you wanted to have her do it to you. It could go either way. It was all good, flexible lass that you both were.

You didn’t. You never had the chance. You never knew her name. But you never forgot it-or her-either.


Comments

One Response to ““A” is for Androgynous”

  1. Tara on July 30th, 2007 11:46 pm

    Beautiful.

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