The booty call

I didn’t know what would happen when he showed up.  I was nervous.  I hoped I would be able to control myself.  But he looked more fantastic than I remembered.  Dear God, why did he have to come back into my life just when I thought I was over him?  And why was I letting him come back??

So I begged him to leave.  We can’t do this, I said.  Please, just go.  You know how badly I want you, but I just can’t.  He was completely indifferent to my pleas.  He just sat there and watched me.  He knew he always made me weak in the knees and he was enjoying this.  I hated him for it.  I loved him for it.

Who was I kidding, I knew I’d submit to him.  More than once.  I always did.  And he knew it.

And ohh, it was soooooooo good.  I was shocked by my raw animal passion for him.  Before I knew what was happening my eyes were rolling back in my head and my toes were curling.  Primitive grunts escaped my throat.  Every cell in my body ached for him.  He rocked my world.  I couldn’t speak but in my mind I screamed “YES YES YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS” over and over.  He satisfied me utterly and completely.  He fulfilled primal needs I didn’t even realize I had.

I would have done anything for him.

I felt like I was in a fugue; I was intensely aware of the sensation of us coming together but it also seemed otherworldly, like an out-of-body experience.  Sublime.  And so right.

For a while I basked in the afterglow.  This is how it should always be, I thought.  What was I so afraid of?

And then, slowly, the glow faded.  I looked over at him and realized that these encounters of ours could never amount to anything more.  I loved him desperately.  But our relationship was obsessive—so intense, so all-consuming, it would destroy both of us if we stayed together.  With us it was all or nothing.  A healthy long-term relationship would be impossible for us.

With tears in my eyes I pushed him away.  I’m so sorry.  I wish I were stronger.

As I turned to leave, I looked at him one last time.  I snapped a quick photo of him so I would have a memento of this special evening.

Goodbye, my darling mashed potatoes.  My beloved spuds.  My delicious, buttery master.  You are absolutely wonderful, but I can’t be with you.  I lose control whenever you’re near me.  I’m afraid you can never be anything more than an occasional booty call.

Spending an afternoon in April 1936

I really need to get that time machine up and running.

Because for starters, I need to go to the Automat. I’ve been hearing about this place since I was a kid. The last Automat in NYC was open until 1991 but by then it was a heartbreaking shadow of its former self. So even though I’ve been to that one, it doesn’t count as a true Automat experience. I want an authentic Automat experience like this:

According to my parents, and everyone else I’ve ever spoken to who was lucky enough to eat there during its better days, the Automat was great. Everything was freshly prepared and all you had to do was put a nickel in the slot, open the door of the compartment containing the dish of your choice, and enjoy. It sounds like so much fun! Plus, they were reputed to have the best baked beans, the best rice pudding, the best macaroni & cheese, the best mashed potatoes, the best creamed spinach, the best chicken pot pie, the best honey buns, the best pies, the best cakes . . . the best everything, really. And most importantly, they had the best coffee, always freshly brewed. The coffee was dispensed from spouts shaped like dolphin heads—and let’s face it, anything dispensed from a spout shaped like a dolphin head is going to taste pretty fantastic.

So I need to go back in time so that I can have a delicious lunch at the Automat. I would have such a good time looking in all the little cubbyhole windows and choosing my meal. And I want to have a cup of that world-famous coffee poured from the dolphin spout, and maybe a piece of cheesecake or coconut custard pie (for which the Automat was also noted).

But it would be a shame to eat and run, so I would probably also take in a movie matinee. That’s why I’ve chosen April 1936—because that’s when Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, starring Gary Cooper, premiered. And if you haven’t seen what Gary Cooper looked like in those days, check it out:

See what I mean? Yeah, I know, he’s smoking in this photo, but Good Lord, he’s also smokin’. Talk about a hot dead guy. I’d have me a fine time watching him on the big screen, and besides, Mr. Deeds Goes to Town happens to be a fun little movie. Of course, they could have filmed him just sitting there reading aloud from the phone book and I’d pay money to see it.

On the other hand, maybe I’d skip the movie and get back in the time machine to hunt down Gary in person. That would make for a nice afternoon too.