The Love Story Cocktail: a classic tale of love, desire, and tragic death
withstanding the test of time and evolution
in a highball glass, and call Romeo and Juliet
because this is the $13 drink for them, and I’ve never actually
been in love, but I sure know what crushed mint, lime,
Midori, rum, sugar, and a splash of Sprite tastes like—
cocktails are such kink and tease
kink and tease, like dancing with five people at once,
and no, I won’t fall in love,
I won’t fall in love, I won’t fall in love,
because falling in love means giving up control—
the surrender, the waving of the white flag I didn’t know I owned,
and I’d much rather be in love with cities
and paintings and landscapes and pleasures
and what about Tokyo at night and Ingres’ Princesse de Broglie
and whips and bodysuits and catsuits and handcuffs,
kinking it up, the whole boudoir
delivered to my doorstep, and in this sushi bar in Downtown Phoenix
when the whipped plum ice cream comes,
I’m reminded of that lingerie commercial
when the supermodel sporting a pink-polka-dot-lace-number
grabs the cake from the fridge, smearing whipped cream on her breasts,
and what’s with people ordering cakes nowadays,
writing all kinds of nasty stuff in icing all over them, whatever happened
to the sanctity of vanilla with strawberry filling,
and as I watch her breasts
rub-a-rub-rub all over the icing, I’m dreaming of the fashion reality
show where the designers dress female wrestlers—
oh, that blue bodysuit, a feline superhero across the mat—
she saves the day, and speaking of sexy,
what about that nineties moment when Gianni Versace dresses
Liz Hurley in THAT dress of black silk and lycra
and THOSE gold safety pins down her curves,
and provoke me, daddy, yes, provoke me,
I could watch this lingerie ad over and over,
and over and over, and I remember that bartender in Ithaca
mansplaining to a friend and me,
saying that well-behaved girls don’t order Long Island Iced Teas,
and what does he know? Actually, I could use one now,
because why play it safe? Let our hair down,
our bra straps loose, our panties off, because a woman’s breast
is the most beautiful sight in the world,
and I’ll say that again: a woman’s breast is the most
beautiful sight in the world, because we birthed
all your fantasies and nightmares,
the image that makes the earth freeze,
gives a film the R-rating, the constant rewind,
those blue panties I lost with “Rated R” screen-printed
on them, and it’s a little cheesy, yes,
but a little cheesecake is always fun—
give me kink in a cocktail glass or your strongest whiskey
or a tequila that makes my tongue tease,
give it action,
because I’ve got the sweetest voice in the world,
but I’ll say the nastiest things: just pick up the phone
and I’ll tell you exactly what you want.
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