A Matter of Taste

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This was originally titled "Fag Hag" but I thought that was both too obvious and more than a little offensive...

"I like girls..."
he suggests, the way that kind of man does,
testing the taste of his words,
the way a fat guy blurts
"I like a nice salad," acknowledging the value of variety
in his diet. As if she'll be a healthy change.
His kiss. And she becomes a tomato,
round and firm and soft and blush red,
her skin crisp as cold iceberg,
blood pulsing thick as creamy ranch.
And, for a while, he is all fork.
But after a few solid clinks of tine
in the bottom of her bowl, suddenly,
he becomes a knife again,
and is off to carve a meatier entrée.

 

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