My Real Life Pink Professor

In honor of Valentine's Day, this is a paean to my guy. He knows who he is.

I was always sure Pink Professors existed. Call it a momentary glimpse in childhood that revealed itself then disappeared, like the grail.

I heard of them years ago. Other kids made fun of the idea. They said they knew of one who killed himself, rubbing it in that I was looking for a fantasy that was strung up somewhere. It makes me sick even now to think of what they said, but they were just kids. Kids are evil, like adults, but now they're smart enough to keep it to themselves.

I traveled the country, afraid of what I might find, all the disease out there. And I had offers, but I always turned them down. I would never lower myself in those backstreet places. I kept my integrity. I knew there would be a glistening, descending heavenly city when the moment was right.

In the back alleys, I'd peek through the screen door of every women's hair salon. I saw a lot of fascinating sights, including a Mr. Felix character a couple times, but no Pink Professors. It got so bad that I started doubting, coming to lump it in with the other myths of childhood -- Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Land Without School.

Good God, it frightens me to say it today, but I went through a lot of back alleys! I could hear these little squeaking noises everywhere, like little cries for help. Could it be a Pink Professor? No, this was when everyone was raising chinchillas -- and that's all it was. Now, looking back from 2011, a chinchilla farm in every garage is absurd, but back then...

In more recent years, then, as everyone's tolerance level grew, I heard reports of bikers bars that were, suspiciously, more demur than their typical reputation would allow for. But I chalked it up to something else, like more women driving motorcycles; really, I didn't even think about it much beyond that. And yet, I might have gotten in on the ground floor! O, to know then what I know now!

I explored all of culture, the entire counterculture, and even every subculture that was open to me. It's amazing to look back on it, that in all the frustration, I still dared to hope. That, in the face of my hopes being dashed time after time. I'd ask the barkeep, interrupting him as he wiped glasses with the tail of his apron, but the word was always the same, "No, he hasn't been here yet."

After a while, they hated to see me coming. So I resorted to subterfuge, looking over fences with binoculars, climbing on rooftops with a telescope, and peering from manholes with a periscope. You get a lot of funny looks that way, but I did anything I had to to enhance my vision ... but nothing!

Then, one random night, after I'd basically given up, I let down my guard and went to a bikers bar, the Roadhouse. I was thinking I'd probably get beaten up, but if it'd dull the pain, it'd be worth it. My pessimism was on overload. I walked in, and guess what, I almost cussed a blue streak in celebration, there he was! The most awesome Pink Professor figure I could imagine! But it wasn't love at first sight ... mainly because I didn't dare think that far ahead. I had to be sure.

I came home and wrote him up as a hypothetical figure. I hate to refer back to it because what I wrote was simply a mishmash of lies I could barely stutter. But he was real -- there in the flesh, there in the spirit, my Pink Professor! It was September 23, 2010, and I went in that bar with the same thoughts I'd always had, but now they were in the back of my mind. Then reality struck...like lightning.

And so since then we've gotten closer and closer. Love has been announced. The rules of love have been set out. We've talked about s-e-x. And with that, I shall draw the blinds!

I was looking for a particular man to savor, to clamor after, to slobber after, to fall in love with, a person who would show the greatest kindness, and that's what I found. I'm not at liberty to say his real name, so I'll have to keep calling him The Pink Professor...

This one's mine, you find your own!

Talk To Her, Cupie

Talk to her, Cupie, where'er she may be. Let your sweet voice of romance beckon, then secure my darling's love, that with me she will be, if not on this bright day of love, then at least on some other day, preferably ASAP.

Cupie, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, her absence heretofore; the courage to change the things I can, perhaps to be less of a hayseed and more of a stud; and the wisdom to know the difference, since hayseeds and studs aren't usually the same thing. Just get her here, posthaste!

What can I do on another lonely Valentine's Day but seek out the help of a higher power? She's out there ... maybe? Maybe she died by now. Since we never met maybe she did die. But putting her aside, surely there's someone else out there still alive and I wouldn't know the difference. Would this undying hope be pulsing in my breast were the matter hopeless? Never! That would be hopelessness, and life is more -- what's the word -- fecund? than that. Is that it? Fecund? Fecundity? I'm not sure what that means but my mind says it's the right word. And you're always supposed to go with your first impression ...

So, sweetie, out there somewhere, let's get together and ... fecundate. I hope I didn't just coin that, but it sounds classy anyway. A little dirty.

Cupie, I clasp your lithe little naked form to my beating heart. Hope I don't smush your wings or get your feathers out of joint. Please, please, please ... talk to her where'er she may be ... tell her to find me! I'm out there somewhere, my dear, lonely, waiting for you, if not today, then by Valentine's Day next!

Beware Valentine's Day Eve

We're almost up to one of the most dangerous days of the year for the lonely bachelor, Valentine's Day. And I swear, if I see any photos of nude women standing behind big red hearts I'm going to lose it.

There are certain things you simply don't want polluting your thoughts. But what can I do? Lovemaking and frolicking, posing for pictures, then heading back to the open arms of some local Fabio; no doubt it's going on all the time around me.

Grandma always told me the right girl would come along. And I think I've seen her pass by a few times, usually in a convertible with four other guys. So I trudge along, mowing the yard, wiping my brow, looking up at the shingles flapping in the wind, and think, the next one. That'll be her, in a pretty breezy, gingham dress; or perhaps in leather; and, you know, if she's the right girl, maybe she'll have a big red heart in her hope chest.

Isn't it something they say, that it's better not to have loved at all than to have loved and lost? So I'm on the right side of history, or whatever kind of philosophy that is. Is that Nietzsche? He was that crazy guy who said something like "Whatever doesn't kill me makes me stronger." I used to think that. But try loneliness on for size; you won't like it. That's when you find out that whatever doesn't kill you just weakens you up for something else to kill you next time. So it's a matter of prolonging the agony until you're on your death bed. Then the death angel -- a pretty thing, ethereal and perhaps nude, just to rub it in -- takes you to heaven. Where they neither marry nor are given in marriage. It's one big religious experience, no hanky panky.

This is the day before the big day. And I hate it, I'm not going to hide it. It's a great day to sleep in all day. But there's one bright side that can't be denied. I'm saving a ton of money not having to buy gifts for whoever she would have been.