Sex and salad

Saigon Cuisine in Santa Rosa
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le_chicken_farmer@yahoo.com

CHEAP EATS I was crying long before my cleaver touched the onion. The trick, when slicing onions for a salad, is to slice them so thin that they flop like fettuccini. I like lots, white and worming, in my salad. The onion, I've decided, is going to help me die.

A guy told me about The Tibetan Book of the Dead. On a date! I was going, mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm, and all the while I was thinking about onions. That will be the thing for me to focus on while I let go of my last breath. Probably in a cracked up car, or underwater, far from any real chance of salad. My eyes squeezed tight. The onion, hot and sad, on the tongue. There it is. Sexy, sweet, tearful, complex, layered ... and out.

Whereas the best place to eat an apple is under the tree! Sitting down, hopefully, on a log, and alive. Very much alive, I was sitting on a log under my apple tree, eating apples. Just now, in the failing daylight, writing this in the dirt. Which never fails. The dirt. My apples, like me, are tart, juicy, and very green. They are wormy and temporary, also like me.

Today instead of being a writer I had online sex and phone sex, both for the first time. That I know of. I'm on OkCupid now. Imagine me — the chicken farmer — mixing it up with cool people and hipsters! They're all polyamorous and spiritual and shit, and so far I have learned what "tats" means, and some other things, but I forget what. Mostly I don't know what anyone's talking about. What's ttyl?

Here's the context: a couple of pictures of the same penis from different angles, and the message, "here are a couple of pics for ya. ttyl." Um ... T-Bone? Tabasco? You? Liver?

Tats means tattoos.

A married couple wants to do me. They're into barbecue. Hey, me too! Then there's this "generous" gentleman, also married. He wants to do me. And wants pictures. Of me ... in lingerie.

I have lingerie. I have a camera. What does "generous" mean?

I'm going to meet all these people within the next week or two, and I'm going to do them, I don't care. I already know that, like dirt. My profile clearly says: long-term dating, don't need friends. Used to be a boy.

Nobody believes me, which is flattering, since my pictures are recent, and real. My strategy: to flush out all the too-cool-for-school hipsters and then school them. In chicken farmerology. They say they're adventurous and open-minded. They think outside the box.

And I write them and say, "I have a box for you to think outside of." Bam! They are gushing over my hair, my smile, my sense of humor, and in one case my nose (?) ... perhaps wondering (or not) about the faint scent of chicken shit. And onions.

Meanwhile, the really cool, really open-minded guys are contacting me. And they get it. And want it. Today I was just beginning a long-overdue e-mail to one of my many, many vagina-having girlfriends who wrote to ask me for Wine-Bottle Wiener's phone number, and all of a sudden in the background, on OkCupid: Instant Message! Which — I just learned how to do this yesterday.

So, friend forgotten, me and this mister are typing back and forth, in my opinion setting up a check-you-out coffee date, when all of a sudden he's, like, "What are you wearing?"

And I'm, like: What? You mean for coff — . Ohhhh ... this is that thing. My first-ever what-are-you-wearing moment<0x2009>!

The truth: last night's baggy hand-me-down pajama bottoms and a long-underwear shirt. It was 2 p.m.

"Just panties and a tank top," I typed. "It's HOT up here." Lucky him, I'm a trained fiction writer. "What about you?"

When, eventually, my woodsy wireless connection failed us, we moved to the phone.

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